Finding A Cure
by MystryGAB
Summary: After the crash, after Wilson's death, after life had settled into a pattern, House and Cuddy meet again.
1. Prologue

**Finding A Cure - Prologue**

"Hold it right there!"

Lisa Cuddy stepped in front of the boy before he could escape the alley. He looked up at her with panicked eyes.

"I didn't do anything," he immediately defended himself, backing away from her.

She stepped toward him, effectively trapping him between the dumpster and the building so he couldn't exit the alley. She stared at him through squinted eyes.

"What have you got there?" She gestured to the envelope he held at his side.

"Nothing."

"Oh, nothing," she said. "Then you won't mind giving it to me."

"No!" He pulled the envelope behind his back and away from her.

"Yes."

"I can't," he said defiantly.

"You can," she responded calmly but firmly, taking another step toward him and reaching out her hand.

"I'll get fired," he explained, and Cuddy fought the tug of sympathy creeping up in her.

"Hand it over, and I won't call the police." She wouldn't be distracted.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" He cried.

"You sure about that?"

She was fairly confident the boy had no idea what he was carrying back and forth between the hospital and this warehouse. She'd first seen him a few weeks ago, slipping in and out of Dr. Benjamin's office; he'd almost run into her as he'd rushed out of the office and around the corner. He probably wouldn't have registered as a blip on her screen if she hadn't seen him again, and again, and again. Several times a week she'd see him race into the doctor's office and out again just a few minutes later, always with a package in hand.

"It's just papers," he snapped. "There's nothing illegal about that."

"Crimes have been planned with just a few papers," she spoke it as a caution, or perhaps in warning.

The kid rolled his eyes. "It's just medical stuff, not gang secrets."

"Let me see," she demanded again.

"But I don't get paid if Dr. B doesn't get the package," he whined.

"How much?"

"Twenty bucks a delivery."

"You just delivered one," she pointed out. "So this one you're taking back to the hospital will make forty for the day?"

The kid nodded, his brown eyes pleading with her not to ruin the gig for him.

It was a pretty good gig for a kid his age.

"Give me," she commanded.

The boy relented and begrudgingly handed it to her.

"Dr. Benjamin pays you?" She asked as she opened the envelope.

"They both do."

Cuddy took a calming breath. She had her suspicions, but being so close to them being confirmed caused her blood pressure to catapult.

"Both?" She asked, trying to appear nonchalant as she looked over the contents of the package.

 _A vile of blood. A swab. A list of labs._

"Dr. G pays for the medical stuff to be delivered."

"Dr. G?" She gave him a curt glance before flipping to the next page.

The boy shrugged. "That's what I call him."

Cuddy gasped as she saw the handwritten page: A list of symptoms. Possible diagnosis. Questions along the margins. Like the notes on a whiteboard.

 _His whiteboard. His handwriting._

"House," she whispered.

She'd recognize his writing anywhere.

"Greg," the kid corrected. "His name is Greg. But I call him Dr. G. He's a scientist or something."

Cuddy felt faint.

It wasn't that this was a surprise. Of course it wasn't. She'd followed the boy because she'd suspected as much.

Dr. Benjamin was a gastroenterologist in the office down the hall from her. She'd been working with him at the hospital for two years now. He could barely diagnose a sinus infection most days because it was "outside of his specialty." And yet just a few months ago he'd not only improved his "success" rate with gastro patients, he'd begun diagnosing cases of varying degrees of difficulty with a speed and accuracy beyond him. His brain was too small and his vision too narrow to think through the details of some of the complex cases, and yet, he'd solved them as if he were a seasoned diagnostician. She'd been immediately suspicious, and it had only increased as she'd noticed the boy, the timing of deliveries and the pattern of testing up to a diagnosis.

Cuddy quickly scanned through the notes, trying to understand what he was up to.

"I got a little brother," the boy said. "And my mom don't work. I really need this job."

She looked at the boy, then. "How long have you been working with Dr. G?"

"A couple of months," he answered. "He needs someone to run errands for him and make the run to the hospital on the count of his leg."

 _His leg._

"How often do you make these runs?"

"To the hospital?" he asked. Cuddy nodded. "Three or four times a week. Sometimes more if Dr. Benjamin calls."

"You run other errands for Dr. G?" she asked. "Besides to the hospital."

The boy nodded. "Whatever he needs," he responded emphatically. "He's my friend."

"Your friend?"

"We play video games and music and stuff," the boy's smile reflected adoration.

"How did you meet?"

The boy looked down at his feet and shrugged. "He helped me."

Cuddy studied him a moment before asking: "You were in trouble?"

He nodded.

"Your parents couldn't help?"

"Dad's in jail," he mumbled.

"And your mom?"

"Home."

"She couldn't help you when you were in trouble," she asked again. It was starting to feel like an interrogation, even to her. Cuddy told herself to take it easy on the child. He was just a boy trying to make the best of the cards he'd been dealt.

The boy didn't answer at first, but finally said. "She's sick."

Cuddy's eyes widened in comprehension.

"Dr. G helps you with your mom." It wasn't a question.

The boy nodded and looked away. "He helps with everything."

Cuddy felt a tug at her heart. She had suspected he was a street kid. It's one of the things that had caught her attention when she first saw him at the hospital. Now, she was beginning to get a better picture. With his dad gone and his mom sick, he was trying to take charge, to raise himself while taking care of his mom.

"Here," she said, reaching into her purse and giving him fifty dollars. She didn't mind paying off the kid. He obviously had a lot on him. "I'll make sure the package gets to Dr. Benjamin. But you can't tell him you spoke to me."

The boy stared at her, wide eyed.

"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," he took the money and smiled at her. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Go," Cuddy chuckled. "Get out of here."

She watched as the boy took off down the alley and disappeared around the corner.

Cuddy looked through the contents of the envelope again.

 _What are you up to, House?_

Over the past couple of years, she'd imagined many scenarios surrounding when she'd see him again. At first, they'd involved him tracking her down and victimizing her again. When the shock wore off and reasoning took over, she'd imagined him seeking forgiveness, and then help, or worse, barging back into her life and acting as if the past few years had never happened. Later, she imagined finding him in the emergency room, or in the news, or at Wilson's funeral. There had never been a doubt she'd see him again. She'd kept it to herself, of course. Everyone thought he was dead. In all her imaginings, none of them involved her finding him and knocking on his door.

And yet, without considering her suspicions or actions at all, without planning what she would say or preparing a reactions, she stalked to the door at the end of the alley and knocked.


	2. Chapter 1 - Discovery

**Finding A Cure - Chapter 1: Discovery**

"How hard can it be to deliver an envelope," he grumbled as he reached the door. "It's not as if …"

His words faltered when his eyes landed on her. He froze, mouth agape and eyes wide. He felt the blood draining from his head as an overload of emotions washed through him: shock, wonder, fear, shame. It knocked him off balance and he held onto the door knob in a white knuckle grip as his other hand reached for the door frame for support.

"Cuddy," he was finally able to whisper. It sounded more like a croak.

"House." Her voice was steady and full of steel as she pushed past him, stepping beneath his arm and through the door.

He didn't try to stop her. He didn't even move, choosing instead to take slow, deep breaths to stop the hyperventilation that was threatening to assault him.

He could feel her watching him, examining him. Without even looking at her, he knew she was dissecting him with cold, sterile eyes. How many times had he imagined her rage? Her disgust? Her revenge? He was nervous and exposed, entirely too vulnerable. He fought to steady the trembling in his hands while he slowly closed the door, diving deep into his internal reserves to find the strength to face this long overdue assault.

He'd always believed he'd see her again, knew that somewhere, someday they'd cross paths. He'd never pictured this scenario, never imagined she'd show up at his door step, beautiful and calm, pushing past his barriers as she had so many times in the past, as if nothing had changed. But then, he'd never anticipated the weakness in his knees or the way his brain seemed to completely shut down, either.

House turned. Slowly. Carefully. Searching for a witty comment about entering the afterlife or facing death in person, any deflection that may shield him for just a few minutes: enough time to find his composure, to regain his equilibrium.

"What's a gi…."

Whatever remark he was going to make was swallowed as he saw the envelope she held like a sign before him.

"Shit." The color drained from his face.

"Yep," she said, a smug expression on her face as she watched him.

He thought he might just throw up.

"Playing Doctor, House? Or just expanding your criminal horizons?"

Her tone was snide, but the way her brow arched and her head tilted slightly to the right suggested there was more beneath the surface. She was suspicious, but more than that: she was curious.

House didn't respond. Instead, he took the time to look at her, to watch her every move, to inventory every change in her since the last time he'd seen her.

 _Beautiful._

It was all he could process. She was still so beautiful, stunning really, and he caught his breath when her eyes locked onto his, guarded and chilled. Haunted.

House felt the bile begin to churn in his stomach as the all too familiar flash from the past assaulted his mind and senses.

Cuddy turned away from him, moving around the room with interest and confidence.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out._

House tried to calm himself, tried to focus on what he should say, on what he'd spent years preparing to say if he ever saw her again. But he couldn't take his eyes off her. Couldn't concentrate on anything but the natural curl of her hair as it flowed down her back, the stiffness in her spine, the determined strength in the drop of her shoulders and the movement of her arms.

He knew she could feel his stare; he could see it in the way she stood just a little taller, in the precision in her steps and the reserved sway of her hips as she slowly moved around the room.

There was a time she would have exaggerated that sway. There was a time she enjoyed his stare. Now, she seemed uncomfortable. He thought she might be fighting the tension that threatened to suck all of the oxygen from the room. Or maybe she was just keeping a tight rein on her rage, waiting for just the right moment to release the kraken and destroy him.

She bypassed the living quarters with only a brief glance at the corner where the bed, chest of drawers and wardrobe were located. She obviously had a destination in mind as she ran her hand along the back of the sofa, barely noting the television, game console and guitars against the wall, or the small, adjacent kitchen with island and café table. It was the area in the back of the converted warehouse that had caught her attention.

House didn't try to stop her. He let her move easily throughout his space - performing her silent investigation – while he took the time to drink her in, to file away every move and expression. He wanted to seal the details in his memory as sustenance for later time.

She was wearing a pantsuit, an unusual choice. Looking back, he could only remember a handful of times he'd seen her in a pantsuit. Not that he was complaining. The jacket hem stopped just at her hips, and as his eyes traced the line of her spine, he noted the way the fabric molded to her hips to shape her still perfect ass. She may have lost weight over the years, but she still had a remarkable figure.

She moved to the lab tables, her eyes landing on each piece of equipment as if doing an inventory. Microscope, centrifuge, balances, shakers and vortexers, microplates, pipettes, dispersers, calorimeter, lyophilizer, biocane storage… The autoclave in the corner, with a high-end water sterilizer, incubator and test chamber caught her attention, and she moved closer to survey the area.

"A spectrophotometer?" She finally said. "And a microscopy system?"

He could see she was impressed with the set-up, even as she turned to face him with a frown. "What are you up to, House?"

Her lips were still perfect: a cupid's bow even though her jaw was tight and lines around her mouth suggested more sadness than joy over the years.

He wanted to see her smile again, wanted to hear that husky, resonant laugh that had always captivated him.

"I've been making a man," he said as he finally moved away from the door.

She stared at him blankly.

"With blond hair and a tan," he continued, waiting for her to acknowledge the joke. When she still didn't respond, he flicked his head to the side flamboyantly.

"You're hardly a Frank-n-furter," she finally said. Obviously unamused by his joke.

"Really? I thought the cane would work well with a pair of fish nets and some heels."

She rolled her eyes, and he felt a strange sense of jubilation at that customary response.

"I think you're more the teenage boy with a Barbie and a bra on his head," she said.

"Ah, you caught me," he quipped, and moved to sit on the stool at the lab table. "I hid them when I went to answer the door."

Cuddy shook her head and returned to her exploration, stepping toward the quarantined room at the opposite corner of the warehouse. He watched her lean forward to look through the glass and into the cages.

"Rodents?"

He didn't answer. He didn't think she expected one. They were obviously rodents.

House frowned - his system finally rebooting from the shock of seeing her – as details began to register in his mind. She was cool and aloof, with a lack of emotion that was unexpected. As many times as he'd dreamed of seeing her again, he'd always imagined her full of ire and fury, with bitterness that would burn him at a glance. Instead, she was detached, almost completely composed and inscrutable from the moment he'd opened the door.

His brain cells started firing at full speed, sparking connections and filtering through data he'd acquired as he'd watched her move around his space.

"You knew," he finally said.

Cuddy looked at him over her shoulder, her brow lifted in question.

"That I was alive," he explained.

She shrugged. "I'm not an idiot."

"By that logic, everyone who attended my funeral is an idiot."

The tilt of her head said she agreed.

"Wilson had five months to live. You had six more months in prison," she shook her head. "The timing of your death was way too convenient."

House couldn't argue, and yet he'd covered all the bases to insure that "convenience" melted into coincidence beneath the facts.

"Swapping the dental records was a smart move, though," she continued, as if she could read his thoughts. "Squelched any doubts."

"But not yours."

He moved to sit on the stool at the lab table, curious at her response.

"Cavities."

House smirked. Yes, she would note that discrepancy in the swapped records when no one else would. One of the dumbest fights they'd had as a couple was over toothbrushes and dental care.

"You had doubts though," he pushed. He wanted to keep her talking. Maybe it was the years they'd been apart, or what had transpired between them, maybe it was the damage he'd done, but he couldn't get a read on her. She had the same chill surrounding her she'd had after their break-up, but without the fragility. Now, she possessed the ease of a woman in control, a woman with the strength and power not to be easily shaken.

House considered what she'd revealed. Clearly she'd inquired about him in some way to know about the dental records. Which means she must have felt something. Something besides anger and hate. Something that compelled her to question where he was and what was going on with him. Something he hadn't destroyed when he'd destroyed her home. It was this "something" he needed to understand.

"Doubts?" she glanced at him. "Hardly. Wilson on a motorcycle road trip was a dead giveaway. No pun intended."

House smirked. "Only one problem," he said. "We'd been planning just that. The ultimate road trip."

"With you," she argued. "No way would he have gone alone. He was no Hell's Angel."

House had a flash of memory.

" _This is Hell," she muttered._

" _And you're Hell's Angel." It was a cheesy thing to say, but he was enamored, totally taken by her fearless willingness to share this part of his life. This would be the first time she rode on his motorcycle, and it felt symbolic. They were taking the ride of their lives – together. Finally._

House thought he caught a slight softening in her expression, as if she was remembering too. But then her eyes turned sad, and he realized she wasn't sharing his memory, but thinking of their friend.

 _Wilson._

House could still clearly recall the moment he'd made the decision to fake his death. A split second decision that would take him down a path he hadn't bothered to consider at the time.

"Once the building collapsed in that fire, it seemed like a good solution," House awkwardly offered, feeling a need to explain even though she wasn't asking any questions. "It's not as if I planned to fake my death."

"No," she said, looking directly into his eyes. "Your plan was to kill yourself and leave Wilson to deal with his cancer alone."

She could have kicked him in the groin and it would have hurt less.

"He wouldn't have been alone," House muttered, and inwardly winced. It was a lame response.

"Having strangers - or simple acquaintances," she emphasized the later. "Taking care of you when you're most vulnerable certainly makes you feel alone." Her voice was firm and resolute. And yet somehow blistering. "If the people you love are not with you, you're alone."

It was a sucker punch: intentional and precise. He knew it. She knew if too, judging from the slight squint of her eyes.

They both felt it.

He felt a shift in her shield and saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes before she turned away from him.

House didn't think she was talking about Wilson. At least not completely. This was about them, about his inability to be there for her when she was sick. It was about the way their relationship had ended. And yet he was puzzled by the lack of emotion at this particular allusion to their past. After all, if marked the start of a very ugly time.

"I didn't try to commit suicide." It was the truth…as if it mattered to her. She hadn't cared about the truth when she'd left him, why would she care about the truth about the last months with Wilson?

Cuddy shook her head as she continued to move around the lab again. "You went into a condemned building to get stoned on heroine." She stuck to facts. Facts that he was surprised she knew. Facts he hadn't wanted her to know. "That's suicidal. No matter how you look at it."

House caught the subtle inflection as she said "you," a disparaging tone slipping past her control. He wanted her to look at him. He wanted to pierce through that shell and see beyond the façade she so easily wore. He suddenly wanted the fight he'd anticipated, the fight they'd never had.

But she obviously wasn't interested in continuing the conversation. She bent her head and looked into the microscope, her focus entirely on what she was looking at through the lens.

"These are cancer cells," she said.

He ignored the comment, focusing instead on something that was becoming a tremendous curiosity.

"You didn't call the cops."

Considering the last time she saw him, he'd destroyed her home and handed her a hairbrush, he was certain there would have been some response, some retaliation. At the very least, there would be some definitive reaction: a negative, if not aggressive sentiment. If she hadn't turned him in, it could only mean…

She looked directly at him, brow arched and mocking as if she knew he was searching for some ribbon of hope: a sign that she'd tried to protect him even after what he'd done.

"He was my friend, too," she said.

 _Wilson. It wasn't about him; it was about Wilson._

House caught the sadness in her eyes, the first real sign of emotion he'd seen break through the detached veneer. He'd seen a similar sadness in Wilson during the few time Cuddy had been inadvertently mentioned in his presence. He'd robbed them of a friendship that mattered to both of them. Just another casualty of an unexplained war. Another thing to haunt his nights.

He watched as she changed the slide and looked into the microscope again. He continued to sort through memories, review thoughts, consider her words.

"These are all cancer cells," she frowned, and moved to the computer at the edge of the table to scan through the data on the screen.

"You were in contact with him." It was a statement, not a question. As he pieced together this puzzle, it was clear Wilson had never broken contact with her.

"Of course," she said as she scrolled through pages of data on his computer.

It was almost a relief. He had enough guilt haunting him. Over the past few years, he'd wondered if he had somehow altered his DNA to become more sensitized to guilt. It tormented him, like little guilt leeches eating away at his heart and soul. How she had managed to live with a guilty complex her entire adult life was beyond him. The only way he managed to keep himself from self-destructing from it was to compartmentalize, to focus on his research. It was a skill he'd always possessed, but now required.

"Cancer research?"

"So Wilson told you I was with him."

"He never mentioned you," she said.

Of course he didn't. He wouldn't. House knew that. Wilson would have been too "sensitive" and "concerned" to bring him up in any conversation with her; he'd never chance hurting her in any way after what she'd been through. Wilson would never betray him, either. Not when so much was at stake. He would need to know with absolute certainty that House would be safe before he would reveal information to her. Cuddy would have been an unknown; her reaction unpredictable given what had transpired. Wilson would not have risked it.

"He didn't have to say anything," Cuddy continued. "If going on that road trip hadn't been enough evidence, he gave it away in every conversation. There's no way Wilson would have participated in that drinking contest during Bike week if you hadn't been there."

 _So, he'd been in contact with her from the beginning. All along._

He'd even told her details about the trip…which was odd. Wilson must have known she'd figure it out. He would have sensed her suspicion, detected it in her voice, in the pauses, in everything that was unsaid. Wilson would have known talking to her throughout the trip – about anything – would only confirm what she was thinking.

House tilted his head as a sudden epiphany took hold.

Wilson knew she knew. Which means he knew Cuddy would be a loyal friend and keep his secret. Which means, he knew telling her would put her in a position that demanded she betray that loyalty. She would have to betray him to ensure she could maintain her dignity, her self-respect, and perhaps even her sense of safety. Wilson knew she would feel a moral and ethical responsibility to disclose what she knew. But if she didn't have proof, if she didn't have facts or a testimony of some sort, she could pretend she didn't know. She could continue to put the past behind her, to live in the bubble he was sure she would have erected, and still give Wilson what he needed. Her silence.

"And by the way," Cuddy said, interrupting his thoughts. "That tattoo was pathetic,"

House grinned. "We were wasted."

"Clearly."

"Hey! He thought it made him look more reckless."

This time he saw her expression soften as she thought of her friend. "It made him look like an idiot."

"You saw it?"

"He sent me a picture."

"Wanna see mine?"

Cuddy quirked her brow at him, her lips turned in a trademark amused scowl. God, he'd missed that look. "You got a tattoo?"

"On my penis," he boldly stated. "It's magical. It changes form when I'm aroused."

She didn't miss a beat.

"Micro-tattoos are so cliché," she sassed.

And House laughed.

It was easy and comfortable, it was intimate, and it startled them both.

Cuddy faced him fully now, arms crossed at her chest as she stood tall and unyielding. He could see the walls reconstructing like Tetris on high-speed replay.

"You're doing cancer research."

House swallowed, and her eyes followed the movement of his Adam's apple.

"Why?"

"You mean how?" How did he get all of this equipment? The lab rats? The lease on the warehouse? How did he do any of this as a dead man? A man with no identity? No ability to obtain a bank account, line of credit or any medical credentials for that matter. "Being dead made it a bit of a challenge, but…"

"No," she interrupted. "I'm well aware of your ability to manipulate people. It doesn't surprise me you have managed to skirt every rule and law and remain off the radar. I don't need to know how you did it. I want to know why."

House felt a strange sense of pride creep over him at her ability to see past the obvious incongruities and focus on the meaning behind it. Even more, he felt the same fondness he'd felt for years before they'd become a couple. It was a tenderness born of a shared history that had formed in her an innate ability to understand him.

"You don't think we need a cure for cancer?" he asked.

"As if you've suddenly become altruistic." She rolled her eyes again, unable to control the automatic response. Her own reactions seemed to aggravate her as much as their conversation, so she pointed to the envelope she'd dropped on the table. "Why are you receiving medical files from Dr. Benjamin? And why shouldn't I go to the police with this?

 _And, there it is._

The threat he'd been waiting for since he'd opened the door. The inevitable power play. But this wasn't a game; it never was.

House looked past her as he mumbled. "Maybe I've changed."

She almost laughed, or maybe it truly was just a release of pent up air.

"People don't change," she said.

"Dying changes everything."

"You didn't die."

"Wilson did."

Her armor cracked. He saw it in the trembling of her hands, in the sadness in her eyes and uncertainty in the tilt of her head. But it wasn't sadness she expressed.

"And that suddenly transformed you into a noble saint," she seethed. "Committing your life to the service of the sick and needy?"

House sighed and moved from where he was seated into the small kitchen area. Her sarcasm was drenched in the anger she obviously kept locked away in that icy shell of hers.

"Hardly," he said. "I'm still the same selfish bastard I have always been. You know, the one who will always choose himself."

He was taunting her with the words she'd said to him, the words that had destroyed his last hope at peace and happiness. It worked. She felt the sting of memory; he saw the fire rise in her eyes as she glared at him.

 _YES!_

He wanted to goad her. Provoke her. He hated how easily she could clothe herself in an icy, impenetrable shroud. Cold and distant. Unaffected. He'd resented it after they'd split and he more than resented it now. He wanted to break through the frozen armor and feel her wrath. He wanted her anger. He wanted to feel the antagonism, to know the fullness of the hate he'd built in her that one faithful day.

House felt his heart begin to race at the sudden flash of memory. Her laughter. The car. The destruction. His smug response.

It was the day his jealous, crazed mind thought would set him free. The day when he would eradicate every bond they shared, every look and stare and touch that gave him hope. He committed the one act of self-destruction that could free him outside of death itself. But it hadn't. Instead, he was enslaved to an interminable shame and to a need that had become a black hole deep in his soul.

House wanted the fight she'd once demanded and he avoided. He wanted a fight that would somehow honor the years of longing and desire between them, and the loyalty and passion they had shared.

He felt the shift in the air, a subtle but seismic shift in the glacial wall surrounding her. A pain shot through is thigh as tension mounted, and he tried not wince.

Her eyes tightened into slits as she silently watched him move into the kitchen and remove the bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet.

"Guess your dealer dying proved to be more problematic than you thought," she snarled.

It was an icy dagger ripping down his spine. House stiffened, gritting his teeth and gripping his fist around the small bottle as he turned to glare at her.

"You're implying Wilson was just my dealer?"

"Wasn't he?"

He tried to hold back the rage. He wanted her to strike out at him. He wanted to feel her wrath and finally find an end to the unfinished war between them. He was prepared for any assault she had surrounding what had happened between them, how he'd let her down and screwed up, what he'd done to her. He was armed with appropriate shields for any personal attack on him. It was what he expected, what he deserved.

He was not prepared for Wilson.

 _NO!_

House gasped for air. The months of care and concern, the sacrifices they'd both made, the fear, abandonment. The unwavering commitment to stay together.

"He was my friend."

 _My Best Friend…My Brother._

There was only a slight twinge of guilt in her eyes as she watched him. The Cuddy of the past would have caved and quickly apologized. She would have rushed to his side to comfort and console him: the very act becoming the catalyst required to fill the widening cracks in the shell that kept him safe and hidden, shielded from the hurt he knew and feared.

But this was a different Cuddy. This one didn't cave beneath guilt, or soften with pity and concern. This one pierced him with defiant eyes.

"Of course he was your friend," she snapped. "How could he not be? A free access to drugs. Easily manipulated. Quick to forgive. He was everything you could possible want."

A chill raced through his veins that just as quickly turned to volcanic heat. House slammed the pill bottle on the counter, and braced his fists against the counter top.

"You don't know shit about my relationship with Wilson," he said through clenched teeth.

"You're not that complex, House." She wasn't backing down. "You may have genuinely enjoyed his company, and may have even loved him, but that took a backseat to your addiction. Everything takes a backseat to your addiction."

"I have been clean since my prescription ran out the month after I left with Wilson on our road trip."

There was only a minute pause before she negated this accomplishment with one sentence.

"You've been clean before."

It hung in the air between them, overshadowing every word and response between them.

His eyes didn't move away from hers. His expression never faltered.

"And then I wasn't."

They both knew why. The memory was heavy in the silence between them.

" _You don't take Vicodin because you're scared. You take it so you won't feel pain. Everything you've ever done is to avoid pain — drugs, sarcasm… Keeping everybody at arm's length so no one can hurt you."_

" _As opposed to everyone else in the world who goes looking for pain like it's buried treasure?"_

 _"Pain happens when you care. You can't love someone without making yourself open to their problems, their fears. And you're not willing to do that."_

Cuddy stepped back from him and crossed her arms at her chest. The memory of that night projected across her face like the reels of a movie.

"You know, my experience with Wilson provided some enlightening data surrounding this very topic." House swallowed the ibuprofen pills and waited for her frown as she silently watched and waited, unconsciously girding herself for an offensive blow. "It turns out pain does not make me a better man, or friend for that matter. It most certainly doesn't make me a better caregiver."

She frowned and swallowed hard, guilt and regret wrestling with anger and bitterness. He witnessed that tangled mess of emotions surrounding her like flies on a carcass. Until there was stillness. Until there was Wilson. His ghost was an overwhelming presence.

"You stayed with him."

It wasn't a question.

"Through all the vomit, pain and dilapidation." House stepped back around the island, pausing just a moment to land his volley. "I learned my lesson well, mommy. You'll understand if I don't thank you."

She stood still and stoic, an apparent bulwark against his rancor. But her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had begun to glisten. Any derision she'd had a moment ago had quickly been transformed to sadness. A sorrow he understood. A grief that bound him to her in a way that left him vulnerable. He almost hated her for that. Almost.

"You were wrong, you know," he said, as he easily moved back around to the stool he'd vacated earlier. "A willingness to fully experience pain doesn't show you care. It distracts from care." He sat down and hung his cane on the edge of the table. "When you're staring death in the face, you want someone who can fight those demons with you. You want someone who can remind you that you matter and that you made a difference in this screwed up world. You want someone who can talk you through your final thoughts on life and dying. What you don't want is someone who is unable to hold you because they are fighting their own pain. You don't want someone who can't talk you through your last wishes because their brain is shutting down beneath the strain."

Cuddy flinched.

"There is nothing noble about enduring pain." His tone was steady and introspect, as if he were in the middle of a differential diagnosis, but there was also a fury burning along the edge. "The last thing anyone should see before they die is their caregiver wincing in pain, fully revealing what a burden the whole experience has been on them. People want their last experience to be filled with love, not guilt."

He'd wanted to say that for years. He resented her dogged determination to cling to such a flawed belief, to use it as an excuse to walk away from him, from their relationship. He'd wanted to discount her theory, to rip the foundation out from under her and leave her as broken as she'd left him.

He may have succeeded. She was struggling to remain detached. He could see the tension in her neck as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She was taking deep breaths, trying to stop the tightening and constriction in her lungs. She wore her guilt like a veil, and her grief like a cloak.

House allowed her a minute to become fully submerged in thoughts of Wilson. In the images his words invoked. She was a doctor. She knew what his last days would look like, what they would feel like. She knew what kind of assistance would be required.

"Don't sweat it, Cuddy," he finally said, bitter and mocking. "Pain happens when you care, right? That means Wilson felt loved beyond reason."

 _Bullseye._

The emotions broke the surface, pouring through the cracks in the dam that had become a fortress separating her from a past she couldn't reconcile. Her eyes pooled with water and her lips trembled. She seemed to crumble beneath the weight of what he guessed were regret and sorrow.

House felt his stomach flip. He suddenly wanted to comfort her. He wanted to hold her and forgive her, to assure her it would be okay. She wouldn't drown; she wouldn't be destroyed. He wanted to shower her with the love he still felt for her. And it infuriated him.

"There's no need for waterworks, Cuddy," he snapped. "We both know it was never about being there for you and sharing your pain, any more than it was about the one damn pill. It was about you and control, and your failed grand experiment with a fantasy."

Cuddy recoiled and stared up at him with eyes wide in dismay.

"About me?" she asked, clearly astounded by his comment.

"I told you it wouldn't work from the beginning," he said. "You didn't want to listen. You didn't want to hear the truth. But the truth matters. The truth is where we find answers and treatments…and cures."

The years of silence were over. He wasn't holding back. What did he have to lose? His life was over. He was dead for all intents and purposes. There was no reason to hold it in any longer, no reason to allow her to blame him, to blame himself. He had taken full ownership of their failed relationship, lashing out in every despicable way to stop the pain. He'd been the villain, tormented by his deeds and failure. Not anymore. Now, the arguments and theories he'd kept in his head were actual experiences, evidence to counteract her lie.

"You were wrong about me, Cuddy," he said. "You were wrong about the pill and the pain. Most of all, you were wrong about us."

Cuddy's brown shot up high on her forehead. "You're actually bringing this up now?"

"It's the perfect time," he said. "You're here. Wilson's dead. Everything I did right with him proves everything you did wrong with me."

"You're actually blaming me for what happened between us." She looked appalled.

"I'm not blaming you. I'm stating the facts. The indisputable facts, based on evidence and experience," he said. "You were never committed to our relationship. You turned a traumatic experience into an excuse to run. You took that one pill and built a story around it about my inability to share pain."

"It wasn't about the pill."

"No," he agreed with her. "It wasn't about me not being there for you, either, contrary to what you held over my head."

"Held over your head?" she seethed. "You think I broke up with you as a power play?"

"I think you wanted to run," he answered. "Your grand experiment to save the broken man wasn't working out the way you planned and you wanted out. Facing death exaggerated those feelings, and instead of dealing with them – instead of sharing them with me – you did what you always do when you don't know how to fix things. You cut ties and run."

"I hardly ran, House," she argued. Her voice trembled and the tears were threatening to fall, but she pushed forward. "I was there, day in and day out, trying to support you and maintain at least a friendship. I was there for you even though you were out for blood."

"You ran to work, like you always do," he said. "It's your safe place. The one area you never fail. You know how to move and position the pieces to turn chaos to structure. You know how to filter data and create processes to move a possibility into reality. That's easy for you…When it comes to work. You're personal life is a different story. You can't control the movement on the board when it comes to personal matters. Relationships have too many unknown variables and unanticipated responses."

He saw her flinch. It was slight, but evident. Not unlike other times he'd pointed out this particular attribute.

 _What you want, you run away from. What you need, you don't have a clue. What you've accomplished makes you proud, but you're still miserable._

She was the consummate professional, a skilled leader and a master administrator. But she couldn't handle the uncertainties of personal relationships. At least not ones she couldn't control and manipulate.

 _You're not happy unless things are just right. Which means two things. You're a good boss. And you'll never be happy._

How true his words had been. It surprised even him.

"You weren't an experiment, House." She didn't sound confident. He knew she was considering his words, placing his diagnoses up on a whiteboard beside her own and trying to find the truth.

"Really?" House stood and walked toward her. "I'm stuck, House," he quoted her. "I keep wanting to move on, but I can't. I just need to know if you and I can work."

Cuddy blanched.

"You knew I was afraid," he said. "And you knew why. You wouldn't even talk about it. You just wanted us to be happy. And you know what? I accepted that, because it was you. I trusted you. You make things happen; I solve puzzles. You pull things together and create functional environments so that I can save lives. That's why I believed we could work."

She was obviously shocked, and perhaps a little startled by the frustration and disappointment emanating from him in spite of his efforts to hold it in.

"I screw up. It's what I do," he said. "Saving me is what you do. Until you didn't."

"It wasn't that simple, House."

House tried to ignore the ache in his thigh as he stepped into her space and towered over her. She stared up at him with a defiant belligerence that eliminated the dominance of his stance and kept them counterbalanced.

"Oh, it is that simple," he argued. "I screwed up every step of the way, but not when I took that pill. That pill allowed me to move past my own pain in order to feel yours. I was there for you. Not right away. Not in the ways you envisioned, or in the ways that make me an ideal partner. But I was there for you. You weren't there for me."

She shook her head in disagreement. Or perhaps in denial.

"I loved you," she said.

Those words were like a red cape waved in front of a bull. House felt a sense of fury explode to the surface.

"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS!" He yelled.

Cuddy took a step away from him startled by the sudden outburst and the magnitude of anger.

"You want to know what love is," he growled. "It's pretending that fucking ibuprofen helps chronic pain just so you can have a chance at life. It's cowering to every demand and request even if it goes against everything you believe in just to get a little crumb of affection. It's opening your heart up to a child when you're terrified of becoming the monster your father was. Dammit, Cuddy. I gave up the only thing I was good at to be with you, and it meant nothing to you! Nothing!"

"Don't you dare!" Cuddy yelled back at him. "Don't act like you were some kind of martyr. You weren't abused and neglected, House. Your revisionist history may justify your…"

"There's nothing revisionist here," he snapped. "There's just your delusions."

"My delusions?" She released a hostile laugh. "That's you're expertise, not mine."

House glared at her, pausing just long enough to let guilt start to peck at her conscience.

"Was it a delusion, Cuddy?" His eyes pierced her and he began to pour out their history. "I lied and played games, I said inappropriate things and made stupid decisions. I disappointed you. I am not denying any of that. I never did. Not from the moment you said you loved me – when you said you didn't want me to change. Remember that? I didn't change. I was the same old House. I never pretended otherwise. I owned it and took full responsibility for every fucking mistake. I apologized and begged and tried harder. But it wasn't enough. You're the one trying to revise history here. I was the screw up, but you were the one who failed. You were the one who didn't know the first thing about love. You said it yourself. You thought you could do it. You thought you could put up with my shit, but in the end I'm just a selfish, despicable bastard that you like to fuck but couldn't tolerate. The funny thing is I've never even blamed you. You have always lived in this delusion where you mold people into that better version you think they can be. I was just the flip side of Lucas. He was the steady, dependable guy who bored you to tears, and I was the bad boy you needed to get out of your system. Nowhere in your perfect world vision did you make room for the man I really am."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair. But don't pretend you've had it worse than me or that I'm the only one who screwed up, here."

"You're trying to compare my mistakes to yours? You can't be serious. You…"

"I crashed my car into your dining room."

 _There. It was out there. Spoken allowed. An admission of guilt._

"I took drugs and ripped tumors out of my leg and married a woman just to spite you. I get it. I've heard it all before. You don't have to remind me. I live it every day of my fucking life, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I couldn't be enough. I'm sorry I destroyed your life. I'm sorry for everything. And it doesn't change anything. It just hurts and nothing will ever stop the pain."

The tears finally fell from her eyes. He watched them streak down her cheeks as she fought back a sob. He could only imagine what she was thinking. What she was remembering. She'd had a similar expression when she'd found him in his bathtub, covered with blood. She'd been angry and hurt; she'd been broken and horrified at what he'd done. She couldn't fathom why he would take experimental drugs, or why he would risk cutting his own leg open. She never completely understood his pain. Even though she tried.

"I never wanted to hurt you, House."

"Yes, you did."

She was about to argue when he reminded her: "Pain happens when you care."

Her face filled with anguish. "I can't do this," she said, turning away from him.

"Do what?" He asked. "I'm not asking you to do anything."

"You're blaming me."

"I'm not blaming you."

"Whatever happened between us does not justify what you did."

"No, it doesn't," he agreed.

It was as if she didn't hear him.

"You tried to kill me."

"I didn't try to kill you."

"You crashed your car into my house!" she said vehemently. "Maybe everything you said is true. Maybe I did totally mess up our relationship, but that doesn't excuse violence."

"It was not _domestic violence_ ," he said through clenched teeth. The words the arresting officer spoke still haunted him, echoed in his mind at every vulnerable moment.

"I was in the house! My sister was in the house!"

"I saw you move…"

"Don't you dare give me those excuses!" She stepped closer to him, her eyes piercing him, her body trembling with fury as she tilted her head from side to side as she gave him a recap. "I knew Rachel was at her grandma's, like every Friday," she quoted him. "Except people get sick and plans change so maybe she was there."

House flinched.

"'I saw everyone else move into the living room," she continued to repeat his words.

 _My words. She is repeating my words._

"Except people turn around or stop in doorways. And load bearing walls collapse beneath the impact of a car and it doesn't matter what room you're in!"

 _How did she know?_

Her hands tightened into fists as she physically fought against the onslaught of emotion threatening to break her.

"You were angry and you acted out by throwing the biggest toy you had at me," she snapped at him, her voice rising several decibels as she continued to rebut his claims. "It just happened to be a car and it WAS A WEAPON."

"It wasn't like that, Cuddy."

"You wanted to destroy me!"

"I wasn't trying to destroy you!" he finally shouted, stepping forward and leaning toward her in intense defense and anger.

She wasn't intimidated.

"You went for the jugular from the very beginning," her voice shook with rage. "Calling every hooker in town and marrying the first idiot you could find just to be cruel and vindictive."

"I was trying to get you to react."

"You were trying hurt me!"

"I was trying to find out if you still cared."

She slapped him.

House felt the sting in his cheek. He was sure there was already a red imprint from her hand forming on his skin.

"You Son of a Bitch!" she screamed. "You destroyed my life! My home!

She moved to hit him again, her hands coming toward his chest.

He grabbed both her wrists and stopped the assault.

"It was MY life," he snapped. "MY home." He shook her as he spoke, the pain still as strong as the day he'd looked through that window. "The only time I didn't feel like some freak on the outside looking in was when I was with you, and you tossed me out."

Cuddy's eyes were wide and she was gasping for breath.

"You were always looking for a reason to move on, and I gave you one." He released her wrist and pushed her away from him. "I don't blame you. I blame me. For everything."

He ran his fist along his forehead, his eyes closing as he let the thoughts and emotions pour out of him that had been held captive for so long. "I wanted to fix myself. I wanted to be the man you needed. I would have done anything…" He dropped to the stool and looked at her again, his eyes rimmed in red. He could feel the pain and loss, the hopelessness that left him raw. "I tried to tell you," he said. "I tried to warn you. You wouldn't hear it….And I wanted to be wrong. But the truth was always there. It's why my dad beat the crap out of me."

House looked away, his eyes glassing over as he remembered. "He didn't hate me because I wasn't his biological son," he mumbled. "He hated me because of what I am. It's why he was trying to break me. He wanted to fix me. Nothing worked. Not the ice baths. Not leaving me out with the dogs. Not starving me. Nothing worked…"

Cuddy was completely still. He thought she might be holding her breath. She was probably in shock. In all the years they'd known each other, he'd never so clearly acknowledged he'd been abused. He'd given hints and clues, explained interactions with patients in a way that left her wondering, and sometimes just not answering her questions, thus making his admission clear. She knew how to read his silence. She also knew what not to talk about.

Yet here he was: talking about it, pouring out his heart.

"I was fundamentally flawed even as kid," he whispered. "That was before the infarction…before the pain…and the pills…" He shook his head, disgusted and defeated. The weight of all the years was finally crushing him. "If anything could fix me…if anything could heal me, it was being with you. But it was too much. I couldn't fix myself."

House look at her, searching her eyes for understanding, for connection, for something that could tether him to the present, to give him hope for a future.

But Cuddy had withdrawn. She had wiped the tears from her cheek and was nervously fidgeting with the bottom of her jacket.

"What are you doing in this lab, House?"

House stared at her, searching her eyes.

Her walls were up. Just that quickly, she had retreated behind that infuriating façade of calm and control. He knew he couldn't reach her.

"Lisa," he said.

She gripped her purse close to her chest, as if it was a shield.

"You know what? Forget it," she said. "I'm not going to do this. Let the cops deal with it.

 _NO!_

House panicked. She couldn't leave. He couldn't let her leave. Not now. Not now…

"It's a cure, Cuddy," he called out to her. "A cure for cancer."

Cuddy froze at his words. She seemed torn between laughing, crying and impossible curiosity.

"What?"

"Well, if not a cure, a damn good treatment alternative," he said. "It's preliminary, but it's really promising."

She spun around to look at him, searching his eyes with an intensity he alone would understand.

"Let me show you," he said, gesturing toward the lab. "Look at the research. At least do that before you send me back to prison."

"Why?"

House could only stare blankly at her, lost and uncertain.

"I don't know," he whispered.

* * *

"I need to cook."

House paced into the kitchen and began mindlessly pulling vegetables out of the refrigerator. The puzzle pieces in his mind immediately began to move in a more organized manner as his hands took on the simple task. He quickly categorized and prioritized, shifting the pieces around to create a clear picture of the clinical proteomics they'd been formulating. The unique bio signatures and biomarkers established in his most recent study could very well hold the secrets of merging protein and genome, dynamic and static, if the biological matrix was…

"Has cooking replaced playing with your balls?"

House smirked and turned to catch her grinning at him. How many times had she brainstormed with him? How many times had something she'd said triggered his thoughts? Provided just the right stimulus to hone his focus? Put him on the right course? Point him toward the bullseye? How many times had she watched him mentally withdraw from her as he chased the answer to the puzzle?

" _You are brilliant, funny surprising, sexy…but with you I was lonely."_

He remembered Stacy's words when she'd told him she still loved him: he was "the one," but she couldn't be with him. How he'd wanted it to be different with Cuddy. And in many ways, it was. She'd never resented the puzzles or the treks in his mind. If anything, it turned her on. No, it was his inability to share her life, his inability to "care" that left her lonely.

"Nothing will ever replace playing with my balls," he grinned, and mentally forced the puzzle to the back of his mind so that he could be present with her. He didn't know how long he'd have this chance.

Cuddy shook her head and chuckled as she moved into the kitchen with him.

"I'm hungry," House explained. "I have found that cooking can satisfy the short-term sensory motor input requirement for a solving a puzzle, while fulfilling the long-term requirement for physical sustenance. A win-win for me…and you in this case."

"Your cooking always supplied more than physical sustenance," she said, removing her jacket and reaching for the apron she'd seen hanging on a hook beside the cabinets. "Your cooking was a religious experience."

Cuddy turned to look at him, her hands behind her back as she knotted the ties. Her chest was pushed forward, the outline of her breasts clear beneath the silky fabric of the camisole barely concealed by the bib of the apron. House couldn't hide the desire in his eyes. He knew she could see it, perhaps even feel it, if the slight blush in her cheeks revealed anything.

He nervously turned back to the counter, silently berating himself for his lack of control. He still found her unbelievably attractive. Nothing had changed. It never would. God knows he'd tried. He'd tried to destroy it - in the worst way possible – but nothing would ever change his desire for her. He would always want her as much as he needed her…as much as he loved her. But feeling that and showing it were two very different things. He didn't want to scare her; he didn't want to ruin the camaraderie they'd managed to establish over the last few hours, but it wasn't as if he could just shut off his feelings. He'd tried that for years and it had only caused him to fall deeper into addiction to the point of losing his mind. The myriad of horrendous experiences since that time had taught him he needed to feel the emotions, even if he didn't act on them. He had to somehow allow them their space without allowing them to carry weight, without allowing them to ignite the space between him and Cuddy.

"How do you want me to cut these?"

She gave him an out: ignoring what she clearly had seen and must have felt emanating from him to focus instead on the vegetables on the counter. House felt relief wash over him.

"Julienne them," he said. "I mean, if Thai is okay with you. I can make something…"

"Thai is good." She gave him a reassuring smile before getting to work.

And just that quickly, the comfort and ease returned. They began talking about the research, just as they had been for hours.

He could hardly believe it.

At first he'd been cautious, almost hesitant as he handed her files and charts to review as he explained his thesis. He'd never shared his research. With anyone. Except Wilson. But that was over a year ago. And Wilson didn't just know what he was doing, he knew why. Wilson understood. He understood his drive and obsession; he understood his fears. Cuddy was a different story. She knew him. She had the ability and capacity to understand, but he'd permanently tainted her vision of him. He wasn't certain she'd ever be able to see beyond what he'd done, so sharing his research with Cuddy would leave him more vulnerable than he'd ever been. It opened an access point that would permanently alter the universe as he experienced it. And that terrified him.

On the other hand, not sharing it, not opening up his world to her would leave him alone and destroyed. Only this time he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to rebuild. He had no choice, and so he'd pushed a stack of personal journals in her direction and began talking, teaching as it were, in the only way he knew.

Cuddy had listened intently as she sat across from him at the lab table. He thought her curiosity was overriding the suspicion and acrimony she held for him. He tried to feed her medical interest, knowing if he could wet her appetite even just a little, he would at least have a little hope for a future. He could build on that…maybe.

He'd explained the study concept and the logic behind the prepared protocol. She'd reviewed his notes and asked questions. He'd gone over results with her, pointing out supporting data as well as anomalies; she'd offered opposing ideas and argued his logic. She'd disputed the ethics of his approach; he'd come back with metaphors to justify the medicine over morality. The more they talked, the more energized he became. He was immersed in a puzzle, but more importantly, he was sharing it with someone. Cuddy could engage with him in a way that propelled him forward in thoughts that would normally take him months to latch onto. And the more they talked, the more his mind seemed to kick in motion with new thoughts and ideas to streamline his research.

Cuddy had a different way of structuring her thoughts. Where he referenced labs and computer data to find patterns and connections, she examined the chaos and anomalies. He wanted to solve a puzzle; she wanted to organize and create harmony. He sought an answer; she sought a way to build - or rebuild -structure. Her administrative mind helped move his process along. She'd volley back an idea; he'd knock it down by pointing to something in his files. She'd point out similar hematological patterns and aberrations that contradicted his theories; he'd redirect to data that would utilize those ideas while taking them in another, stronger direction. He was thirsty for her thoughts, hungry for her opinions. She'd been eager to give them. She'd always been eager to give them. Like an idiot, he'd fought her every step of the way, mocking her abilities and disregarding her role. She'd been the one administrator to give him a real chance, to provide the environment, freedom and support to fully function, and he'd…

"Look," she said, pushing one of his journals toward him. She pointed to some of his notes and began talking about the six sigma framework, rambling on about improving quality systematically and the need to reduce the goal to the defect level.

"You should leave the metaphors to me," he interrupted. "If you're going to push an administrative ideology, you need to start with the black belt. Preferably wearing only the black belt."

She glared at him through narrow slits, but her lips were turned in a smirk.

"Shut up and listen," she said and moved to the whiteboard. He watched as she moved the data on the board into organized columns and created a flow chart from the deficiencies in the data. It was the same data, but a different picture and as she continued to talk through a process only an administrator would find exciting, he began to see where she was going.

"Wait," he demanded. Cuddy turned to face him, frowning as he took the marker from her hand and began messing up her flow chart.

"House," she said.

"You're right," he mumbled. She was stunned by that admission. He could sense that. "It's in the deficiency."

She turned to read the formulas he was writing on the board and how he was connecting them to the steps in her flow chart.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

He continued to frantically write, his hand barely able to keep up with the speed of equations formulating in his mind.

House could feel her standing beside him as he stepped back to assess what they'd just outlined. The air around them held a weight, filled with the sudden profundity of the moment. They stood still and silent, staring at the board with expressions of shock and awe.

"This could actually work, House," Cuddy finally whispered.

House felt her hand take hold of his, her fingers intertwining with his. "Do you know what this means?"

It was a redundant question. Of course he knew what it meant. She was just shocked and excited, seeing a world of possibility that gave her hope and direction…and a connection to him that she obviously hadn't completely digested yet.

House squeezed her hand. He'd been working on this research for years now, and all it took was a few hours with her to tip the scales, to change the direction of his thoughts and open a new realm of possibility. He wasn't resentful; he was grateful. He was beholden to her. He was afraid to hope for more than just this moment, afraid to revel in her touch and the natural reciprocity that seemed to exist between them. It could very well be a discerning and defining moment for them, as much as the research, but House could only feel the bittersweet pain of this discovery.

Cuddy must have sensed his sadness. She leaned her head against his shoulder and hugged his arm close to her body.

"He would be proud," she gently said. "He'd never let you live it down that it was HIS specialty that provided the greatest puzzle for you to solve."

House closed his eyes as grief washed over him. He missed Wilson, but this wasn't just about the loss of his friend. How could he tell her that? How could he even begin to explain?

"House?" she whispered, pushing him a little as she held his arm a little tighter against her. "This is good."

He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't look at her. He couldn't tell her what he was thinking or feeling. He couldn't tell her all of the things he wanted to say. Even if he had the courage and she had the grace, there weren't enough words to express the contradictions, the jumble of thoughts and emotions, the hopes and fears, the regrets.

House felt her hand on his cheek, her soft fingers running along the line of this beard.

"House?"

"Next time I won't be so afraid," he finally whispered.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, silently begging her to understand his words, to see what he couldn't explain.

"I won't be paralyzed," he said, his voice husky and heavy. "I won't be powerless."

Her eyes softened when they locked with his. He could see his pain and anguish mirrored in her grey orbs; he could feel the strength and solidarity in her touch. The air around them condensed and she could feel the pressure surrounding them, squeezing and pushing.

House didn't know who moved first. One minute he was desperately riding the wave of compassion in her eyes, and the next her mouth was moving against his.

It would have been easy to explain a desperate, encompassing desire to release the tension. If they'd jumped into a passionate embrace, he would have understood. It would have made sense.

But Cuddy moved slow, gently nipping at his lips, sliding along the pulp, tilting her head in one position then the other. She wasn't trying to take the edge off, she was savoring him, tasting and feeling the sensations. When his tongue slid along the crease of her lips, she didn't hesitate to give him entrance. She let him explore, to quench his thirst. When she lightly pushed against him, his arms came around her, his hand low on her back, drawing her into a tight embrace.

Cuddy moaned.

House felt the shift, the flame of desire suddenly ignited. He moved to deepen the kiss.

She pushed him away.

House stared at her with eyes still alight with passion, but clouded with confusion…and then fear.

She was frantic. Her eyes wide, her skin pale. She was trembling and he could see she was ready to run.

"I can't do this," she said.

"Cuddy…"

"I WON'T do this," she snapped, pushing him aside as she rushed around him and toward the door.

"Cuddy wait!"

He rushed toward her as fast as he could without his cane. She had paused a moment to grab her purse, which allowed him time to stop her at the door. He grabbed her arm.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed.

He stepped back, startled.

"Cuddy, please…"

"I'm not doing this with you," she snapped.

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Leave!"

"Cuddy, please. Talk to me," he desperately sought for a way to reach her, to stop the walls from closing around her. He pushed in front of her, stopping her from opening the door. "What about the research?"

She glared at him.

"Move out of the way."

"This is important. You know that," he pleaded.

"Move out of the way," she repeated, this time more forcefully.

"You need to give me a chance," he said.

She reached around him and grasped the knob, pulling the door open against him with a force that caused him to stagger.

Cuddy turned to look at him. Her cold grey eyes pierced him, but her words sliced through his heart.

"Dead people don't get chances."


	3. Chapter 2 - Analysis

**Finding a Cure: Chapter 2 – Analysis**

She couldn't focus. And judging by the frustrated glare Arlene was shooting her way, she was doing a terrible job at pretending she cared about the conversation at all.

Cuddy had been present, but very removed throughout the entire shopping spree with her mother and sister. Now, as she sat across the small restaurant table, watching as her sister animatedly told a story about the kids, she felt herself slipping away again.

 _House._

She couldn't stop thinking about him. The vision of him was permanently imprinted on her mind, as if she hadn't spent years trying to erase him.

His hair was longer and held more grey than the last time she'd seen him; and he was balding at the crown of his head. His face was more gaunt and sad; his Adam's apple even more defined at his neck. He looked the same, but older and yet she could only see the man she'd always seen, the man who could turn her inside out with a look and a few chosen words.

And he was still intoxicating.

She'd been beyond curious as he carefully walked her through his analysis. He'd gingerly pushed his journals toward her, almost as if he were nervous…or afraid. Definitely afraid. It almost radiated off him, but instead of being caustic and rude, he consciously regulated himself: carefully choosing every word as he walked her through his research. He'd shown her lab results, experiments and formulas, breaking down his thought process through metaphors and logical conclusions in the same mesmerizing way that had captured her attention in med school. He was a magnificent teacher. That hadn't changed.

She'd poured over his work, completely captivated by his process. She'd asked questions; he'd answered with great detail. She'd challenged his theories and logic, which was always a slippery slope with House (he could so easily belittle and degrade), but he'd patiently responded, and had even legitimately considered some of her arguments. The more they talked, the more emboldened they became, until she found herself fully enmeshed in a quasi-differential.

It was remarkable how quickly they fell into their rhythm, as if it had only been a few hours since they had last seen each other, not years.

"What are you going to have, Lisa?"

Arlene's voice jarred her from her thoughts.

"What?"

"Food," she impatiently said. "You know, the reason we're here at a restaurant. What are you going to eat?"

"Just a salad," Cuddy mumbled, barely acknowledging the young waiter that stood next to her.

Arlene frowned.

Cuddy ignored her. She was remembering the way House had paced when his mind latched onto something, the way his head would tilt and his eyes became sparkling pools as ideas would roll in like waves and he'd quickly make notes on the whiteboard. It was exhilarating to watch. It always had been.

After all these years, he still fascinated her: the way he could peel back layers of symptoms and diagnosis to find the real disease, could quickly filter through data to find the truth, could ignore emotions and propriety to find the root motivations. Now, to see him sort through generations of research and medical trials in a quest for a cure for cancer…it was breathtaking. She had been simply riveted. Spellbound. And more than a little turned-on, much to her dismay.

"When was the last time you ate?"

She heard her mother ask, clearly warming up for another lecture on her daughter's weight loss. Cuddy released an impatient sigh.

"Last night," she answered.

Cuddy felt herself grin as she remembered his face when he'd turned to see she'd removed her jacket. He'd almost dropped the vegetables he'd been holding. He'd been so flustered, trying quite unsuccessfully not to gawk at her breasts as he nervously placed the ingredients on the small island. She'd taken her time tying the apron, enjoying the way the red flush crept up his neck a little more than she should have.

There was so much tumult between them. So much of it was bitterness and anger, but so much was longing and desire. The chemistry between them was still strong, even though they ignored it. They had focused on the latest test results, but the attraction between them was palpable. Alive. Breathing. Growing.

" _It's been a long time since I had someone to bounce ideas off," he'd admitted as he'd pulled his whiteboard over to make notes as they continued to brainstorm._

It had been a long time since she'd felt anything.

"Lisa!"

Cuddy jerked back into the present when her mother snapped at her.

"Okay, who is he?" Julia demanded.

Cuddy frowned and faced the frustrated stare of her sister.

"What?"

It was probably best to feign ignorance.

"That look on your face has nothing to do with work or Rachel or the noise your car is making, or any other things you've come up with, so stop lying," she sharply said. "Just tell us who really has you so distracted."

Cuddy stared blankly at her. She'd mastered the look over the past few years, a ready mask of dispassionate control and matter-of fact response.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered, and nodded a thank you at the waiter as he served them.

House had served her too. His arms had brushed her bare arm as he'd set the plate in front of her. She'd caught the look of sadness and longing as he quickly turned away.

"It's House," her mother said.

Cuddy felt her stomach drop.

The quiet at the table was deafening as the sisters stared at their mother: Cuddy in shock and Julia in horror.

"Are you crazy?" Julia hissed at her mother. The rule was never to speak of the psychopath.

"I could ask you the same thing," she said. "When have you ever known Lisa to get lost in daydreams like this?"

Julia didn't argue, but pointed out the obvious.

"He's dead."

Arlene turned to look pointedly at Cuddy. "Is he?"

"I…I don't…" Cuddy stammered. "How would I know?"

Julia's stare became more intense: searching, examining. Cuddy nervously adjusted the napkin in her lap.

"How would you know?" Julia yelped.

"Cut the Crap, Lisa," Arlene said. "You've known all along."

Cuddy flinched. Julia growled.

"He's alive?"

"Of course he is," Arlene's response was flippant.

"And YOU knew this?"

Cuddy sat frozen as Julia glared menacingly at her mother. Usually so gentle and soft-spoken, her sister was outraged and riled.

"Not so loud, Julia," Arlene reprimanded. "People are staring."

"You are unbelievable," she said, before turning to Cuddy. "And you!"

"I haven't done anything!" She had no idea how that response was a defense.

"You haven't denied it either!"

"There's nothing to deny," Cuddy said, picking up her fork to pick at her salad as casually as possible. "There is nothing to talk about at all."

She felt their eyes burning into her as she fought not to gag on the lettuce. She felt sick to her stomach, anxiety creating enough bile she thought she may spew like a volcano any minute.

"Oh my God," Julia whispered.

"She was madly in love with the bastard," Arlene said. "Did you really think she wouldn't go to his funeral?"

Cuddy felt her hands begin to shake.

"He crashed his car into her home," Julia's growled. "He could have killed us. Of course she wouldn't go to his funeral."

"That was an aberration."

Cuddy looked at Arlene, wide-eyed and shocked at her mother's calm disregard of the horrifying event.

"An aberration?" Julia was appalled. "Are you mad?"

Arelene dropped her silverware and glared at Julia. "That's the second time you've questioned my sanity," she snapped. "Maybe instead of looking at me, you should get your head out of your ass and look at yourself."

Cuddy had never heard her mother talk to Julia that way. That kind of animosity had always been directed at her, not her sister.

Julia was a shocked as well.

"I'm sorry, honey, if there is anyone here that's been insane these past couple of years, it's you," her voice was patronizing. "Lisa was hurt and betrayed and angry. She had every reason to be. You both did. But Lisa spent most of her adult life in love with this man: obsessively and passionately in love with him. He was the single most important witness to everything meaningful in her life. You know that. If he had truly died in that fire, there's no way Lisa wouldn't have been totally broken by it. She would have been curled up in a ball somewhere, lost and comatose. She would have required an intervention I can't even imagine."

Julia sat back in her chair and stared at Cuddy, studying her as she processed her mother's words.

Cuddy couldn't speak. She was totally astonished at her mother's intuition; shaken by her words.

"You didn't shed a tear," Julia softly said, as if she was having an epiphany.

"She barely flinched when we heard the news."

"I thought she hated him too much to care."

"There's a thin line between love and hate."

"That's cliché, mom," Julia rolled her eyes.

"Clichés are formed from truths," Arlene returned. "The best and worst days of her life were with that man. He was an unpredictable, insane ass who worshiped the ground she walked on. There was never a time she didn't love and hate him."

Cuddy felt like she was having an out of body experience, totally separated from life as she witnessed her mother and sister talking about her as if she weren't even there.

"I think he probably tipped the scales when…"

"Perhaps," her mother interrupted Julia. "Except Lisa's guilt would quash all that hostility. She spent months beating herself up for pushing him to that point. "

"As if anything she did would justify…"

"Enough!"

Cuddy couldn't listen to them any longer. Her mother's vision of her – the glimpse into herself – was a knife in a freshly opened wound, exposed when the scab was pulled away as she sat with House yesterday.

"I don't need to hear how I broke him," she sounded more tired than angry. "I don't need to hear what a failure I am at relationships or what a pathetic woman I turned out to be. I don't need to hear what a disappointment I am. Just stop. Both of you!"

The silence at the table was deafening.

"Don't be so dramatic," Arlene finally said. "You're hardly a failure. You've had a greater love than either one of us could imagine, much less have. There's no shame in that."

"Speak for yourself," Her sister cried. "I love…"

"Oh, shut up, Julia."

Cuddy laughed, a truly hysterical laugh. There was nothing funny about the situation, nothing even remotely comical in the surprised hurt in Julia's expression or the typical nastiness in Arlene's voice. And yet, she couldn't stop laughing. She'd been holding it together so long. She'd been strong and fearless. She'd faced every pitying expression, every reproach and humiliating comment. She'd built a new life, a good life. A calm, structured life, organized and predictable. A…boring life, devoid of feeling and emotion.

Cuddy gasped for breath, beginning to snort as the laughter became erratic, almost manic. There was something very cathartic in the release. Emotions she'd kept buried deep in her heart and soul began to bubble to the surface, the hurt and betrayal, the guilt and shame, the love and longing, the disgust and self-hatred. Soon the tears were filling her eyes and a barrage of hiccups camouflaged the sobs.

"Get the check, Julia," Arlene commanded, standing and taking hold of Cuddy's shoulders. "Come on, Honey. Let's get you out of here before you totally fall apart."

* * *

She told them everything: about Wilson's cancer and the parole violation, how she'd just known in her gut his death wasn't real and how the tone in Wilson's voice when she'd asked about the funeral only reinforced her suspicions. When he'd left for a road trip only days after, it was the final confirmation. She told them of the weekly calls from Wilson, how they never mentioned House, and yet everything said seemed to be about him. And she told them about the funeral, how she'd stood at Wilson's grave and felt House watching her even though she never saw his face. Then she told him about the boy she'd seen at the hospital and the sudden brilliance of Dr. Benjamin. She explained how she'd suspected House was somehow at work, so she'd followed the boy.

"And that's when you saw him?" her mother asked.

Cuddy nodded.

"You talked to him?"

"God, I hope not!" Julia interrupted. "Lisa, tell me you called the cops. Tell me you didn't open yourself up to this guy again."

Cuddy looked away, biting her lower lip as she remembered the way his eyes glazed over as he stared at the whiteboard.

" _This could actually work, House," she whispered, still reeling from the thrill of working the puzzle with him, and in awe at the possibilities before them. "Do you know what this means?"_

 _It was a bittersweet discovery: a treatment that could obliterate cancer coming only after Wilson had died from it. She thought the fact he was discovering it must be taking House down a black hole of regret and remorse. She took his hand and leaned against his shoulder. The grief was radiating off him, the dark tentacles of despair seemed to have tightened around him, strangling and suffocating._

 _She tried to comfort him, reassure him that Wilson would be proud. But he was lost in the darkness._

" _House?" She wanted to bring him back to the present, to push away the cloud that threatened him. She wanted to reassure and refocus him. "This is good."_

 _There was a faraway look in his eyes, a shroud of pain and defeat cloaking the blue orbs. Cuddy felt her own despair, an undeniable need to weep and mourn, something she'd never allowed herself to do._

" _I won't be so afraid."_

 _She was shaken by his words, by the vulnerability behind them and the trust in the admission._

" _I won't be paralyzed again," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "I won't be powerless."_

"Lisa?" Her mother touched her shoulder and effectively pulled her from her reverie.

"He's doing medical research," she muttered, looking down at her hands as she twisted a tissue around her fingers.

"Tell me what happened," her mother gently demanded.

So Cuddy explained what she'd discovered at the warehouse, his lab, the research, the breakthrough.

"It's a cure for cancer?" Arlene gasped.

"It's too early to say that," Cuddy answered. "It's in the beginning stages of research. It takes years to go through lab and human testing, and then trials and FDA approvals…"

"But it's big?"

"It's huge," she said. "This could take cancer research in an entirely new direction."

"And now you think he's changed," Julia didn't hide her frustration. "His best friend died so now he's going to become the future Nobel Prize winner for peace, love and the cure for cancer. YOU CANNOT BE THIS BLIND!"

"He's not doing this because of Wilson," Arlene said, but she wasn't speaking to Julia. The compassion in her voice was so surprising, so unexpected Cuddy was compelled to finally look up and into her eyes. "It's because of you, isn't it?"

"Mom!" Julia almost screamed. "This is not a 1950s movie. House is not a rich playboy who got drunk and had a car accident that forever changed his life. He's a maniac. He tried to kill us! And Lisa is certainly not his magnificent obsession."

 _Magnificent Obsession_

That was it. She had understood it when he looked at her. It was there in his eyes, in the silence, in every unspoken word. She had felt it when his fingers entwined with hers and he gripped her hand in need and hope. It had haunted her throughout the night.

She'd laid in bed for hours trying to understand what had possessed her to kiss him. She kept seeing his face, his eyes, his lips; she kept feeling his touch. But intermingled with these flashes of sensory and memory were images of the pages in his journals: dates, doodles, sketches of inmates. Inmates.

His initial journals were started while he was in prison. The baseline was developed a few months after he'd been released and had returned to Princeton Plainsboro: a baseline that didn't correspond with thymoma.

It was there in the dark she'd realized it was not Wilson that had been the catalyst for his journey to find an answer to cancer. It was her. Her cancer scare. It was his reaction, his fears.

" _I won't be paralyzed. I won't be powerless."_

Cuddy had found herself curled in the window seat of her bedroom, staring out at the sunrise as she thought back to the days after the crash. He had disappeared; she'd moved away. She'd been determined to put it all behind her, to forget him and start a new life. She'd been surprised when the DA had contacted her to explain he had turned himself in and asked if she still stood by her decision. She knew they had expected more from her, but she didn't want to be a part of it.

She had read about his conviction in the newspaper, but had heard through the grapevine that he had defended himself. People said it proved he had really gone crazy this time. She didn't agree. She thought it proved he was just the same as he'd been for years: self-destructive. It had hurt. She'd felt defeated, crushed once again by the hopelessness of it all. He was in full self-sabotage mode, but she wasn't there to catch him. And she never would be again.

Now after seeing him again, after going through his research and journals, she questioned everything she'd believed. Had something happened during the months he'd vanished? What had caused him to return? Why would he choose to defend himself and not fight the charges? Had he felt guilty? House didn't do guilt. He played games. He manipulated. He conquered…and yet he didn't.

Had he come back with a plan? He always had a plan. Had the plan been circumvented? Had it failed? Or was the plan to just self-destruct? If that was it, why even bother coming back? He could have just left the alcohol and drugs kill him. But he was somewhat clean when he handed her the hairbrush. He'd even seemed smug, as if he'd done a good thing. Maybe he had found just a shred of conscious, or maybe….

Maybe she was thinking too much. She didn't have the answers, didn't even have enough information to hypothesize. She may never know what had compelled him to come back and turn himself in, and yet somehow she knew - beyond a shadow of a doubt - that everything he was doing was about her, about the tangled mess they had created.

"No, Lisa," Julia said, shaking her head in horror. "Tell me you're not falling for this crap. Tell me you didn't let that psychopath get to you."

Cuddy began to tremble. She felt it deep within - a seismic shift – breaking the carapace of control and denial. Waves of emotions crashed through her; the tears flowed down her cheeks until the salty beads dropped from her chin and jaw. The sobs racked her body and she fell back into the sofa, pulling her knees to her chest and holding in a tight ball.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, but she was washed away from reality, lost beneath the layers of heartache and anguish crashing in the chaotic internal waves. She couldn't see Julia or her mother; couldn't hear their voices. She was trapped in an echo chamber with his voice bouncing off the walls.

" _I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I couldn't be enough. I'm sorry I destroyed your life. I'm sorry for everything. And it doesn't change anything. It just hurts and nothing will ever stop the pain."_

They could have been her words. Everything he'd said, every accusation he'd made was a reflection of what she'd told herself over the years. She'd spent many nights reliving the months they'd been together - and the months after - doing a differential on their relationship that always resulted in a list of terrible mistakes she'd made with him. She'd obsessed over them, had let the guilt and shame eat away at the soft tissue of her heart and soul, until there was nothing but the hardness of humiliation…and pain.

Their pain had intermingled over the years. Sometimes they were the cause of each other's pain; sometimes they were the relief. The fabric of their relationship was weaved with such time and trust, with love and longing, with fear and foreboding; pain was an inevitable thread. It couldn't be denied. It wouldn't be ignored.

" _Do you think I can fix myself?"_

She hadn't even tried to fix herself. And she had needed to be fixed. She still did. Now more than ever.

Cuddy gradually began to feel herself drifting back from the bubble of despair. She didn't know how long she'd been crying, but she was exhausted. She was weak and broken, and holding onto the arms that had surrounded her in the storm.

"You know, I've only seen you cry like this two times my entire life," Julia softly said, her lips moving against the top of her head as she held her. "The first time was after the infarction, when House had the muscle removed." Cuddy remembered.

"You had barely mentioned him until then," she said as her fingers push the hair away from Cuddy's face. "He was just another colleague as far as I could tell. I didn't even know he'd been your college crush."

She'd guarded her secret, held his memory deep in her heart, unwilling to share it with anyone. Anyone but him.

"I certainly didn't know you had feelings for him…until that day."

Cuddy leaned into the comfort of her sister's arms, soothed by the way her hand ran through her hair, along her shoulder and arms. Her embrace was gentle, but strong.

"The second time was the night you broke up with him."

Cuddy closed her eyes at the memory.

" _Don't. Please, don't."_

She still woke up in the night at times hearing him plead with her not to leave.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said again.

"For what?" Julia asked. "What on earth do you have to apologize for?"

Cuddy closed her eyes, and tried to move out of her sister's embrace.

"Lisa," she said, loosening her hold enough so she could turn, but not enough to pull away. "Talk to me."

Her eyes stung as if the tears could return at any minute. Cuddy closed them, trying suppress the emotions and will away the pressure in her chest. She was tired and weary, broken. She didn't know if she could take any more.

"Lisa," Arlene sat on the coffee table in front of her and took her hand. "Sit up and talk. Now."

"I don't know what to say," she whimpered. She felt like a child.

"Whatever you're thinking," Arlene firmly demanded. "Whatever you're feeling."

Cuddy choked back a wayward sob.

"I feel ashamed."

"Ashamed?" Julia looked legitimately surprised.

"I did everything right," she said. "I did everything I was supposed to do. Everything you expected. I left my home, my life. I got a new job, new friends, new hobbies. I went back to endocrinology and worked on building my practice. I focused on Rachel, on trying to be the mother she needed and deserved. I even went out with every single blind date you both set me up on. I've tried…I've really tried…"

She looked up at her mother feeling the weight of defeat. She expected to see her mother's usual scowl of disapproval. Instead, she found tender eyes, understanding eyes watching her and patiently waiting for her to continue.

"I don't feel anything," Cuddy admitted. "I thought I was just numb. After the crash, after…I thought after so many months of hurting and pushing through while he emotionally assaulted me at every turn, I had finally broken. I thought I just needed time to heal…But I don't feel anything. It's like the lights have all gone dark; everything is grey and lifeless. I don't see colors. I don't feel emotions. I laugh when I'm supposed to laugh and smile when I'm supposed to smile, but it's all for show. I don't feel empathy for my patients. I can barely feel anything for Rachel. My daughter! That precious little girl…She's beautiful and smart and happy…and I'm just going through the motions. I can't feel anything."

"Until now," Julia said.

Cuddy looked at her sister, silently acknowledging the truth. Clearly she was feeling something now.

"I'm sorry I let you down," Cuddy sighed.

"What?"

"I tried to be what you wanted me to be," she explained. "I tried to rebuild my life and move on. I tried to be strong."

"You are strong," Julia said.

Cuddy roughly shook her head in denial as the tears began to flow down her cheeks again. "He could have killed us," she cried. "He is unpredictable and destructive and a danger to himself and others."

She could hear the blood pumping through her head, pounding in her ears as her words contradicted her heart. The cognitive dissonance could have been a migraine piercing through her head and behind her eyes. The room was quiet; the air was full, pregnant with the truth she couldn't keep hidden.

"I kissed him," she admitted. "How could I do that? How can I be so dead and yet be so alive when I'm with him? I spend a few minutes with him and it's lights on. All the rides in the amusement park are ready to load. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"You…"

"And I can't even blame him," she said, interrupting Julia before she could respond. "It was me. I kissed him! He just stood there. Looking at me with those soulful eyes, fragile and broken, and…God, he's just so beautiful."

Cuddy dropped her head in her hands, hating herself for what she was admitting, for what she was feeling. She was the most screwed up person in the world. Even more than House.

"He does have that going for him," her mother said.

Cuddy dropped her hands and stared at her mom, startled.

"He's rude, arrogant and lanky…and he needs to shave," she said. "But those eyes will suck you in every time. He's like the Bermuda triangle."

Julia shook her head, amused and frustrated at her mom.

"It's true," Arlene said. "And you know it. The way he looks at Lisa, it's no wonder she's in Hell. He opens his mouth and you totally understand why she would want to bite his head off and throw his body into a ditch. Then he looks at her like she's the only person on this earth that matters and you wonder how she's not jumping his bones right there."

"Mom!"

"You may feel dead, honey, but I'm still alive and well," Arlene said.

"You really are terrible at this," Julia scowled at her mother.

"I'm just telling the truth."

"Well don't," she said. "Just sit there and pretend to be supportive."

"I don't have to pretend," Arlene snapped. "I am supportive."

Julia turned to face her sister.

"Look at me, Lisa," she said.

Cuddy turned to face her and Julia grabbed her hands, holding them in reassurance and solidarity. Something had changed. She couldn't identify it, but she recognized shift in attitude and emotional response.

"It's okay," she said. "We are family. A dysfunctional family, but still family."

Her mother rolled her eyes and went to sit on the sofa at the other side of Cuddy.

"We haven't always been close, and I know I frustrate you," Julia continued. "But you have always been there for me no matter what. You've protected me and defended me, you've stood by me in good times and bad, you've been brutally honest with me when I've needed it and reminded me of who I am when I've lost myself. Even when things go wrong and you are angry and hurt, and when you have every reason to resent me, you see me and love me and never turn away. And I see you as so much more than just my sister. You are my friend. My best friend."

Cuddy stared at her, wide-eyed and stunned.

"But I've never been that for you." Julia squeezed her hand lightly as she made the admission.

"I…"

Julia shook her head to stop her from interrupting.

"I don't understand you most of the time," she said. "I see you and I can even anticipate what you will do or what you will say just because of our history together. But I don't get you. Not like House does."

Cuddy felt the tears well in her eyes again. How much could she cry? Surely she would just dehydrate soon.

Julia was quiet, watching and waiting for Cuddy to respond.

She had been silent for so long, unwilling and unable to explain the battle going on in her heart and mind. It was killing her. It was slowly eating away at her very foundation. She needed to be honest with herself. She needed to let it out. She needed to trust someone.

"I miss him," she whispered, and a tear dropped down her cheek. "Every day. I wake up wanting to hear his voice. Still. After all this time. I wait for him to barge through the door…I'll be working on patient files or going through reports and find myself listening for him, like it's second nature. When things get hectic and overwhelming, I go to the stairwell and expect him to barge in to distract me with some ridiculous complaint. When I need to make a decision I think about what he'd say, how he'd break it down to the obvious choice. I still check my computer to see if he's hacked into it, and my desk to see if he's left something in it or rigged it to collapse. I listen for him to lecture me about the failure of intuition against the proficiency of logic. He's everywhere, and nowhere. And it takes every bit of energy I have just to breathe in and breathe out every day."

Arlene dropped a box of tissue between them, and Cuddy realized Julia had started to cry.

"Why didn't you tell me?" her sister asked. "Why didn't you talk to me?"

"Because I hate myself," Cuddy answered with venom in her voice. "I hate that he can do all the things he did to me and I can still want him this much. I hate that I'm THAT woman. How can I ever feel good about myself? How can I teach Rachel self-respect and dignity when I allowed him to treat me that way?"

"You weren't exactly a victim," Arlene interjected.

Both girls turned to look at her.

"Don't look at me like that," she said. "You never backed down from a fight with him. You could dish it out as much as he could. He rarely had the upper hand in the verbal sparring between you two. And if I remember correctly, you pulled some pranks on him that surpassed any of his. It was an equal playing field for you two."

"He crashed his car into her house," Julia said. "Intentionally."

"You keep bringing that up," she scolded. "But you cannot reduce their entire relationship history down to that one moment."

"It was a pretty big moment."

"I'm not minimizing it," Arlene insisted. "It was horrifying; it was a breaking point, but it was not their defining moment. It wasn't a real pattern of behavior."

"He's the most self-destructive guy I've ever met," Julia seethed. "Of course it was a pattern."

"Self is the key word there," Arlene said. "He wasn't violent."

"He was abusive."

"He sabotaged himself."

"He got married days after they split up and invited her to the wedding."

"And Lisa went to the ceremony."

"He got stoned and emptied his bank account on hookers."

"He was doing that before they dated. Why wouldn't he after she broke his heart?"

"He took an experimental drug that gave him tumors that he CUT OUT OF HIS LEG IN THE BATHTUB."

"He wanted to stop the pain," Cuddy interjected. "He was desperate."

Arlene and Julia turned to look at her.

"There's only so much pain he can take," she quickly explained. "When too many more layers are dumped on him, he gets desperate."

"So you're defending him? Julia asked.

"No."

"Yes." It wasn't clear if Arlene was disputing Cuddy, or defending House herself.

Julia looked back and forth between her mother and sister.

"Everything is not black and white, Julia." Arlene's tone made it clear she was about to receive a lecture. "Certainly not with those two. You can't reduce their actions down to who was right and who was wrong because they both screwed up on so many levels it was just a muddled mess of grey. You can't talk about what House did without considering why he did it. And you can't think about why he did it without thinking about what Lisa did. And if you think about what she did, you have to think about why she did it. You'll get dizzy from going in that circle and yet still never find the answer."

Arlene poured a glass of wine and Cuddy realized she had no idea when her mother had left the room to get the bottle or the glasses.

"And you," she directed her attention to Cuddy. "You're so busy focusing on what you think you should feel, on what society says you should feel and what others expect you to feel, that you don't feel what you feel." She took a swallow of wine before filling another glass and handing it to Cuddy. "You need to stop thinking and start feeling. You need to stop doing what you're 'supposed' to do, and do what you want to do. You need to stop fighting yourself. Life is hard enough. You don't have to beat yourself up so much."

Cuddy drank the wine. She didn't take a swallow; she took several swallow. Turning the glass upside down until she had drank the whole glass.

Her hand shook as she placed the glass on the table. The quiet that fell on the room was heavy, turgid from the complexity of truth. Cuddy felt a bit disoriented, adrift in the fog of a new perception. She felt the familiar hollow in her stomach, the tug in her chest: the anxiety that had become a part of the structure of her nervous system.

She wanted to talk to House.

"You love him," Julia broke the silence.

Cuddy didn't look at her. She didn't respond. What was there to say? Everything she'd already said made her feelings clear. Well, as clear as they could be given the muddled emotions she'd released.

"I don't like it," she said. "But I don't know what to do. I don't want you to be hurt; I want you to be happy. But I don't think you'll ever be happy unless you hurt. You need that polarity. You need that extreme ride that only House can give you."

It was true. She knew that. For years she ran from it.

 _"What you want you run away from. What you need, you don't have a clue."_

House had seen it long before she ever acknowledged it. Even when she did finally stop ignoring it, she fought it. She tried to control it and change it, to force it into the perceived mold of propriety. Then, when she couldn't manage it, she tried to manage the one who most affected it. House.

 _"Nowhere in your perfect world vision did you make room for the man I really am."_

She'd been too busy trying to control the chess pieces and the play on the board to truly respect the game, much less enjoy it. Now, after months of a lifeless existence, she was tired of running, tired of fighting. She was tired of trying to control what was never meant to be tamed. She just wanted to find her way back into the chaos.

"What are you going to do?" Arlene asked.

Cuddy shrugged. "I don't know."

"Bullshit."

Cuddy jolted. Julia stared – mouth agape – at her mom.

"You know exactly what you're going to do," she said. "You've already got it planned and sorted out down to the smallest detail. You may not like it. You may be afraid what people are going to think, or what it will do to your career, or how it will affect Rachel, but you know what you want to do. You've known from the moment you ran out on him yesterday."

Julia looked at Cuddy

"I have to agree with mom on this one," she said. "You wouldn't be so distracted and stressed over this if you didn't already have a plan. Whatever it is, I'm in. You won't be alone."

"We're both in," Arlene said. "Now spill it. What are you going to do?"

For the first time in a very long time, Cuddy didn't feel alone. She felt restless and anxious, ready to move forward with a new sense of direction, a new purpose.

She reached for the bottle of wine and poured another glass. She cupped it in her hand and leaned back against the sofa before looking at the curious faces currently watching her.

Cuddy grinned.

"I'm going to bring him back to life."


	4. Chapter 3 - Revelation

**Finding A Cure: Chapter 3 – Revelation**

It had been three days. Three interminable, tortuous days.

House sat at the lab table staring down at the most recent In Vitro Assays, but not processing a single thing. He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't sleep. He could barely eat. He couldn't even remember if he used soap in the shower this morning. He was a complete wreck.

The wait was excruciating. He found himself looking at his watch every few minutes, which always felt like hours even though sixteen minutes was the longest he'd lasted before the need to check the time took over. His days had become a Hitchock movie: the loud ticking of the second hand matching the rhythm of his heart, the sweat on his brow, the wide anxious eyes as he froze at every noise coming from the alley. Everything was exaggerated as he waited for the pounding on the door and the police presence that would signify the final chapter of his story. A pathetic story at that.

It was all completely illogical. He knew that. If she had turned him in, the police would have been here already. There were only two reasons to wait. One, to torture him: make certain he developed a severe anxiety disorder prior to his arrest to maximize the punishment of the jail time he was destined to endure. Not impossible given this was Cuddy and he deserved to be tormented. Or option two: she wasn't turning him in at all because his research was important enough to overlook his crimes. This was obviously the most desirable option. And not completely impossible. After all, she'd always used his brilliance as a doctor to excuse his bad behavior. But it was the most unlikely at this point.

" _Dead people don't get chances."_

That was true on many levels. As he'd spent the last three days pacing the floor, he'd come to realize the truth he'd been denying. He could only go so far with his research. He would never be able to take this to the next level. He'd never be able to take it out of the lab. Not as a dead man.

It had been the right choice at the time. He didn't regret it. He'd never regret those last months with Wilson. His own miserable "life" was well worth the cost of giving Wilson those last few months to experience all the things he'd put aside until later. Besides, it hadn't really been much of a sacrifice; he'd been pretty much dead up to that point anyway. He'd just been going through the motions, uninterested in cases, bored with the games, depressed by the overwhelming proof that his life really could be summed up as one screw up after another culminating in one colossal, unforgivable mistake. Being dead was better for him. Being dead was safe.

Except he wasn't dead. He was very much alive, awakened from a long slumber by his life-long nemesis and temptress. His boss. His friend. His love. God was she beautiful.

House jumped at the knock on the door.

 _Shit._

The day of reckoning. He'd was ready for it, but he was in no way prepared.

To think he could have made a run for it. She'd probably expected that. She probably had someone watching him, waiting for him to move so they could capture him at the airport or train station. She would want to maximize his humiliation, to make a final public display of his downfall. But he hadn't even tried to run. He'd waited. Waited for his punishment. Waited for his destiny. Waited for her.

He was an idiot.

There was another knock, this one more firm.

His hands trembled as he grabbed his cane in one and the package he'd put together in the other. It was now or never. He slowly trudged toward the door thinking it was now or never. But, it was too late for never. It was just now.

He flung the door open, determined to face the officers with what little bravado he could muster.

House froze.

It wasn't an officer. It wasn't even the police.

She was still, motionless and a bit indignant as she glared at him.

"You son of a bitch," she said, just before she dropped the bag she was carrying and pulled him into an embrace.

"Stacy."

He was shocked, to say the least. In know scenario would he have ever picture Stacy showing up at his door. It was even more unlikely than Cuddy.

 _Cuddy._

"How could you do this?" She maintained a grip on his shoulders and shook him a little as she leaned back to look at him. "I thought you were dead."

House stared blankly at her, words not quite finding a platform in his mind.

"Look at you," she softly whispered, running her hand along his hair and neck until she reached his jaw. "I can't believe it."

She was so tender and accessible, completely welcoming and affectionate, as if it hadn't been years since she'd seen him, as if they'd parted friends. It was like he'd never died.

"How…What are you…" He shook his head, searching for words through the shocked haze. She smiled that open, hospitable smile that had always made him feel comfortable. "How did you find me?"

Stacy eyed him as if he'd just asked the dumbest question she'd ever heard.

"How do you think?" she smirked and bent to pick up the bag she'd dropped. She pushed passed him and into his living space. Another woman with a surprise attack, barreling through his well-constructed fortress. "So this is where the dead hang out now?"

House took a deep calming breathe before closing the door and locking it behind him.

"Why are you here?"

Stacy had placed her briefcase on the lab table and turned to look at him with arched brows.

"Isn't that obvious? Lisa sent me."

"Cuddy?"

"Is there another Lisa who knows you're alive? We should probably talk about that first," she said. "Who does know you're alive."

"Cuddy sent you?"

It was both a question and a statement. He was trying to digest what was happening. He'd been so sure the next person to walk through his door would be a police officer, or the district attorney.

"Yes," she grinned. "She hired me. And I'm guessing she is the only one who knows you're alive since you've managed to stay in hiding this long."

"She hired you."

"Is it your hearing that's fading, or is it old-timers kicking in," she teased. "I don't think I've ever seen you so speechless."

House scowled. "I'm sure it's a big turn on."

"You should be happy, Greg," Stacy said. "She sent someone who actually cares about you and would be willing to help get you off."

"Of course. YOU would jump at the chance to get me off," he quipped, pointing his cane at her. "Were you in need of a little Vindaloo?"

"Don't be an ass."

"I'm not on the menu," he said. "Our last tasting was truly our last tasting. Scalded tongue and all."

"I'm not here for sex," she snapped. "I'm here to help you get your life back."

"I don't need my life back."

"Of course not, I'm sure living like you're in a witness protection program is a real dream come true for you."

"Look around," he flung his cane out to point into his living space. "I've got everything I need."

"Except a life," she pointed out. "You need a lawyer. You should have had one in the first place."

"Why are you here?

"I told you. Lisa hired me to help you get your life back?"

Her eyes softened as she explained. "She told me what about Wilson and the parole violation. You should have called me."

He hadn't even considered that option. Honestly, he hadn't really thought about anything at all. He'd been in shock, drowning in a mire of fear and loss, sick at the thought of a future without Wilson. Wilson was all he'd had left, all that mattered.

"You should have called me before that," Stacy continued. "You never had to go to prison. Those charges could have been reduced to misdemeanors and you could have gotten away with no time served, probation and community service."

House dropped his head and bounced his cane on the ground twice before responding. "Doesn't matter. It's done."

"Yes, why think about the past," she drawled. "It's not as if we could learn from it or anything."

"Nothing to learn that isn't already known," House mumbled and stepped to lab table. Stacy didn't respond. She quietly watched as he sat down on one the stools and hung his cane from the side of the table.

"Cuddy was right."

House frowned and looked up at her.

"She said you were guilty," Stacy explained. "I thought that was a bit of a stretch. You never succumb to guilt. It makes you pathetic and prone to stupid mistakes. It's an ineffectual emotion that blocks logical thought and leads to stupid responses."

House glared at her. She'd lived with him long enough to know exactly how to use his words against him.

"There's a difference between feeling guilty and being guilty," he pointed out.

"And who gets to determine guilt? The law or the person who feels guilty?"

"I committed a crime. The law says I should pay for the crime. End of story."

"The law also says you have a right to defense," she said. "And that particular law is important since it helps ensure the punishment actually fits the crime. You defended yourself!"

House shrugged.

"You're an idiot," she scoffed. "You went to prison. For EIGHT months."

"Three meals a day, a fairly comfortable cot and no rent," he said. "Not a bad gig once you get used to the rancid smell of the brainless void. The empty head of a moron is a terrible thing to waste."

There was a short pause before Stacy sputtered: "Oh my God."

House didn't look at her. He didn't have to. She could see through his bullshit most of the time, and he wasn't' exactly at the top of his game at the moment.

"She was right," Stacy said, stepping closer to him and bracing her hand against the table. "You did feel guilty. You wanted to punish yourself." She shook her head, astonished by the discovery. "You didn't' want a fair and equitable punishment, though. No, you wanted to be broken. You wanted to be beat down and humiliated, stripped of your dignity and your future, you wanted…"

"You still think you've got me all figured out," he interrupted, clearly agitated by her diatribe. "You don't know…"

"I didn't have to figure it out," she retorted. "Lisa did it for me."

That shut him up. His head jerked up and his eyes latched onto hers.

"That stunt with the car didn't work," she said. "It didn't destroy the hope and desire you were clinging to, and you couldn't deal with that. So you decided to create an impossibility and destroy everything that had existed between you."

His chest tightened and his ears began to ring.

"If there was nothing to hold onto, no way to get beyond the destruction, then maybe you wouldn't feel. Maybe you could slip back into that black hole of despair and pretend you didn't need anyone. Pretend you…"

"Shut up!" House slammed his palm onto the counter.

Stacy jumped back, startled by his outburst.

House rubbed his hands on his face and took a few deep breaths, trying to push out the sounds bricks falling and metal twisting. God, he hated that memory.

"Why did she send you?"

He focused on the question at hand. His emotions were too close to the edge. He needed to get a hold on them. He needed to compartmentalize and put some structure to his thoughts. He needed to figure out what was going on, what was in his future.

Stacy had tilted her head to the side and her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"Why didn't she send the cops? I should have been arrested by now."

Stacy only paused a moment. "You really can't figure that out?"

House sighed and dropped his head.

The research. Of course.

He was disappointed and a little angry. In spite of everything, he'd held onto a hint of hope that she would see him again, see him as the man she'd always thought he was and not the one he'd turned out to be. He'd wanted her to rescue him for him, not for his research.

He should have known better. He DID know better. Hadn't he just been thinking she'd choose his research? She found meaning in his abilities even when he didn't; she found value in his work, significance in his actions that always seemed to override his failures. Her ability to see the possibility in him kept that spark of hope alive in him. He couldn't kill it; he couldn't extinguish the flame. It was her that gave him hope, and that hope made him weak. It made him pathetic.

Stacy reached for her briefcase and began to pull out files.

He watched her movements, leaning toward the distraction as he sought to find some sense of courage and gratification that at least he had his research going for him. He had something of value. Maybe he could build on that. Maybe that could become the connection he so desperately needed.

Stacy looked at him with patient, sympathetic eyes.

"Here," she handed him a piece of paper. It was a police document. A statement of release. House quickly scanned the words on the page. "Look at the date."

It was two days after the crash.

"She dropped the charges against you two days after the accident," she said. "That – along with your medical history – would have gotten you a reduced sentence."

House stared at the document, fully taking in the import and significance of what he was reading.

"She knows you, Greg," Stacy said. "Lisa knows you. She knew what you were doing then, and she knows what you're doing now. That's why she called me and not the police. That's why she hired me."

House looked at her then, searching her eyes for the truth.

"This is not about the research," she confirmed. "This is about you."

 _I love you. I wish I didn't, but I can't help myself._

Did she still feel that resignation? Had her logic yielded beneath the weight of her feelings for him?

"You talked to her?" House asked.

"I did." She gestured to the stack of files and papers. "She's responsible for all this. Your medical history, employment history, letters from patients, statements from your team about what really happened, even affidavits from forensics specialists on the evidence from those tickets."

He reached for the paperwork and started looking through the files.

"She's very thorough," Stacy said. "If she ever wants to give up medicine, she could be a great lawyer."

He could feel her watching him and it made him nervous. He felt exposed. He wanted to say something rude and spiteful. He wanted to rage against the emotions that were welling up inside him. But more than anything, he wanted to believe what he was reading, believe in Cuddy.

 _Dead people don't get chances._

He had shrunk to the floor when she'd left the other day, the weight of her words had left him weak and trembling. She'd been angry and bitter, at herself as much as him. And, she'd been spooked. He'd been sure it would fortify the walls she'd built to separate them, to keep him at bay.

"Is she okay?" he asked.

"You mean after she kissed you?"

His head jolted up, stunned at her response, shocked at what it meant.

"We had quite the conversation," she confirmed, giving him a smug grin.

"Why did she do it?"

"I told you," Stacy said. "She wants you to have your life back."

"No." His eyes were intense as he looked at her, demanding an answer. "Why did she kiss me?"

"You need to ask her that," she said.

"But you know."

"I know what's relevant to the case, and relevant as her friend."

"What did she say?" House pushed.

"Uh, uh," Stacy said. "That's not how this is going to work. If you want answers, you have to work for them. Thirty minutes of work on your case for one answer to a question."

They stared at each other in challenge.

"Three questions."

"Two," she countered. "But only if you are honest and really work with me. We've got a lot of work ahead of us and I need you to be focused on preparing your case."

"And you think extortion will ensure my cooperation?"

"I think you want answers," she quipped. "So yeah, you'll cooperate."

Damn. She was good.

House sighed, resigned to the task at hand. He moved into the kitchen and took a bottled water from the refrigerator.

"I'll take one," Stacy called.

"I didn't offer you one."

But he pulled a second bottle from the shelf and limped over to the sofa. She'd brought the files over to the coffee table and was now pulling out a legal pad to begin taking notes.

"Let's start from the beginning," she said.

"At birth? This is going to take a while."

"You're dead. What else have you got to do?" She yanked the water from his hand.

"Seriously?" he said. "We didn't talk about my childhood when we were living together. What makes you think I will talk about it now?"

"We don't have to go that far back." Her voice took on a professional tone. "Let's start with the events leading up to the accident."

"Accident? Is that what we're calling it?"

She ignored him. "How long had it been since you two split up?"

"Four months, twelve days and thirteen hours," he said. "I didn't look at my watch so we'll have to guess the minutes."

Stacey looked at him, dumbfounded. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her mind as she searched his expression and tried to intuit if he was being sarcastic or if he had indeed tracked the days of his heartbreak.

House felt a pang of resentment shoot through him as her eyes turned sympathetic. But he was spared from the need to go on the offense. She didn't say anything about what his words had revealed. Instead, she turned back to her notepad.

"You had just gotten out of the hospital?"

He nodded. "They removed three tumors from my thigh."

House went on to describe the tumors and explained the details of the surgery.

"And Lisa was your proxy?"

She tried not to show any emotion, but the air around them was heavy with weight and substance, with the pain and regrets of a past that still haunted them both. He had forgiven her, but the pain and permanent handicap resulting from her decision was something they could never forget. It was her albatross; it was his shackle.

"She made sure they wouldn't amputate," he answered quietly.

"Was that a possibility?"

Stacy maintained a practiced calm, but House had known her too long, had known her too intimately not to understand how difficult this conversation was for her.

"Yes," he answered. "It is always a possibility when you're dealing with tumors, but especially when they are localized in an area with a history of necrosis."

"And you got the tumors because of a drug?"

"Compound CS-804. It was an experimental drug that was meant to regrow muscle."

"But it had only been tested on rats."

"Why do I have the feeling Cuddy already filled you in on this?"

"My God, Greg," she sighed. "Why would you risk your life like that? What were you thinking?"

House looked down at the empty water bottle he still held in his hand.

"I wasn't thinking," he admitted with more vulnerability than he'd intended. Certainly more than she expected. "I was hurting."

Stacy dropped the pen and notepad onto the table, and turned to face him.

"Why weren't you there for her?"

House shrank back into the sofa; his eyes glazed over as he stared at a spot on the wall across the room.

He was closing her out. She could see it, could see him preparing a distraction. She knew she needed to stop it.

"You two always shared such a powerful bond." Her tone was wistful, her eyes somber and wistful. "It used to make me a little jealous, the way you taunted and provoked each other. You two would go at it faster than anyone: always so ready to fight and argue, and yet when the chips were down, you would defend each other at all cost, no matter who was affected."

He felt his mouth turn in a small smile. He remembered those days. They were embedded in his mind and heart, they tethered him to the hope that tormented him.

 _Hope if for sissies._

That had been such an understatement.

"I always got the feeling there was a secret between the two of you that no one else shared," she said. "That no one else would ever share."

House turned to look at her, hearing the uncertainty and hurt in her voice.

"I never cheated on you," he told her.

"I didn't think you did," she assured him. Stacy moved closer to him on the sofa and rested a hand on his forearm. "She was terrified, Greg. She thought was going to die. She was afraid of what would happen to her daughter, of what would happen to you. Why would you leave her alone through that? You were always there for her. Why weren't you there for her then?"

House closed his eyes as the memories washed over him. His body grew tense, and his thigh began to throb. Stacy sat quietly beside him, watching him fidget uncomfortably. She didn't say another word.

He knew she wouldn't ask again; she wouldn't insist he talk to her. She would just wait like she always had. It was one of the things that drove him crazy about her. She knew how to wait out the tension, to ask the most pointed question and wait until the witness cracked beneath the pressure. He wasn't immune to the tactic.

"She was my world." He caved beneath the silent pressure. "She was my boss. My friend. My…She was my everything."

Stacy understood. She was strategic in every area of his life. He trusted her, loved her, and depended on her in every way.

"You couldn't deal with the thought of losing her." It didn't sound like a question, but House answered anyway.

"I couldn't think," he said. "I couldn't breathe when I was with her. There was a chance it wasn't cancer. It could have been any number of things – treatable things – and I couldn't think clear enough to diagnose her."

Stacy nodded. It was his general practice to keep his distance when he was in diagnostic mode.

"So you lurked around and had your team check in on her," she said. "You hacked into her medical files and monitored her from a distance, just like any other patient."

House nodded, his lips pinched in resentment and self-contempt.

"By the time there was a diagnosis, it was too late," he said. "She was dying. Or that's what we thought."

"And you hadn't been there at all."

House flinched, remembering the moment he got the call. He only vaguely recalled the look of worry and concern on Foreman's face, but he vividly remembered the darkness, the suffocating weight in his chest, and the pain. The constant, intolerable pain.

"So you took the Vicodin." House nodded.

"I came to be with her." His voice was hollow as he continued. "I stayed by her side all night. I was with her when they prepped her for surgery. I held her hand when they wheeled her down to the OR. I stayed in the gallery during the surgery and by her bed all through recovery. I never left her. Not once."

She watched as his eyes filled with remorse. This was still an open wound, still raw and bleeding after all this time.

"But none of that mattered," he said. "It was too little too late."

Stacy listened to his words, watched the emotions line his face. She was trying to reconcile what he was saying with what Lisa had told him and what she knew of him. It didn't line up.

"Why didn't you fight for her?"

House looked at her, agitated and confused. "What?"

"You are relentless, Greg," she told him. "When you want something, you never give up. You fight and claw your way through every obstacle. You manipulate and break rules, but you don't give up…Why did you let her walk away? Why didn't you fight for her?"

He pulled away from her and stood, moving quickly into the kitchen. Stacy watched him carefully as he grabbed his cane and limped over to throw the empty bottle into the recycle bin. His knuckles were white as he tightly gripped the handle of his cane. His back and shoulder were taut, his head bowed as he struggled with his memories and emotions.

"You didn't think you deserved her," she whispered. She knew he heard her, but he didn't turn to look at her. His eyes remained closed as he forced himself to breathe. "You didn't fight for her because you thought she was doing the right thing. You don't think you deserve to be happy under the best circumstances, but when you let her down, when you failed her…"

"None of this is relevant to the case," he growled as he braced his hand against the island counter for support and balance. She could see he was shutting down. The shields were going up and he was preparing his arsenal for battle.

"Ask your question," she quickly said.

House frowned at her over his shoulder.

"It's been thirty minutes," she explained. "Time for your two questions."

It was the one thing that would stop him from going on the attack.

He turned to fully face her, the invisible wall bumping up against his need for answers. He stared at her cautious and needy, daring to step out from behind his protective shield.

"How is she?" he finally asked.

Her brows lifted in surprise. "Really? That's your question?" She shook her head, amused. "I was expecting something a little more probing and difficult. Something more annoying."

House scowled and took a step toward her. "I'll try to do better next time," he snapped. "How. Is. She?"

"She's Cuddy," she said, as if that was a descript answer. "She's resolved and determined. She's guilty and afraid. She's totally focused on getting what she wants no matter how difficult…and regardless of what people will think about her. She's fearless and brave, already bracing herself for all of the gossip and condemnation to come. She's the woman she's always been: your greatest defender and champion."

It was everything he wanted to hear, and everything he hated. How many times had she been subjected to ridicule because of him? How many times had she faced undeserved doubt and prejudice because of something he'd said or done? He had been her greatest burden from the minute she'd hired him, even worse when she'd welcomed him into her bed, into her life. Now, here she was about to face yet another round – this time worse than anything they could imagine – to rescue him again.

"Does she hate me?"

Stacy tilted her head as she gazed softly at him, like he was a child needing reassurance.

"No, she doesn't hate you," she said. "She hates herself."

"What?" House blanched. He didn't want it to be true. He didn't want her to be mired in guilt and shame. It was her fallback position, but he didn't want that for her. He didn't want to be responsible for that dark place. "She has no reason to be guilty."

Stacy picked up the notepad and pen again, turning her focus back to the case. "Those were your two questions. Time to work."

He cursed. She grinned.

"You can't be serious."

"Two questions," she said. "Those were the terms. Next time choose your questions more wisely."

He glowered at her. "You can be a real bitch, you know that?"

"Thank you," she said. "Now, let's get back to the day of the accident. You and Lisa talked and she apologized for what had happened. You told her it wasn't her fault and took all the blame. You and Wilson stopped by her place on the way out to dinner so that you could return her hairbrush, and…"

"Wait…She told you that?"

"Is it not correct? Did I miss something?"

House stepped toward the sofa, his stance insistent and demanding. "She told you I took all the blame? She said that? That I took the blame?"

"No questions," she said. "You've had your chance, now it's my turn."

"Cut the crap, Stacy! This is not game."

"No, it's not!" she fought back. "This is your life. This is not about finding answers or being right. It's not about solving a damn puzzle…even if that puzzle is Lisa. This is about a chance. Another chance at life. A chance to do it right this time. You may not think you deserve that chance, but she does. Lisa cares."

House growled in frustration. "I need to know why!" he said. "I need to know why she thinks I deserve this. I need to know what she's thinking. Can't you understand that?"

"Then ask her!" she barked. "Get your life back and ask her."

House staggered back, caught by the simplicity of the command and the complexity of the process.

Stacy actually felt sorry for him. His obsessive need for answers and his desperate need to be right had to be put aside for the greater cause: his life. For a man that didn't find much value in his existence other than his ability to solve puzzles and see truth, this was asking the impossible.

"God, Greg," she said. "You can't let your past continue to destroy your future. Haven't you suffered enough? Hasn't SHE suffered enough?"

"Don't you think I know that? I caused most of her suffering." His eyes were rimmed in red, marred by emotions he couldn't contain. "Everyone who gets close to me gets hurt. She told me that. Wilson told me that. I can't do it anymore. I can't risk hurting the people who are stupid enough to care about me."

"Grrr. It's the same old story with you," she growled. "You think you don't deserve another chance. You don't think you deserve to be happy. Well maybe you don't. Maybe you deserve all the misery you are heaping on yourself. But Lisa doesn't deserve it. She deserves to be happy. Even in your self-flagellating state, you must see that."

House saw her in his mind. Her eyes. Her smile. She had done so much for him over the years. From the time she'd given him a job when no one else would to the minute she walked out his door and contacted Stacy, she had been his guardian angel, his savior. She did deserve to be happy. She deserved more than that. She deserved…everything.

"She is fighting for you, Greg." Stacy had stepped in front of him and was demanding his attention. "You almost destroyed her. You may have been out to destroy yourself, or out to kill whatever hope you had for a future, but you ripped from her the one thing in this world she depended on."

His eyes were riveted on her, completely focused on what she was telling him.

"You."

His eyes turned glossy and his jaw began to tick. Stacy took his face in her hands to keep him from turning away, from fighting the emotions that threatened to overtake him.

"As crazy and messy as it got between you two, you were always her constant," she said. "And she was yours. It was like that even before you got together. You took that away from her."

"I took it away from me," he mumbled. "Not her. I didn't mean it for her."

He kept clinging to his reasons, even though he know the results didn't reflect his intentions at all.

"She knows that," Stacy said. "Somehow she has managed to move past all that. She has managed to get past all that destruction and pain, all the fear and insecurities, and the complete mess you made. She's managed to put all of that aside to help you. Can't you do that for her? Can't you be there this time?"

House grabbed her wrist, holding her hands against his face as he breathed in her words and strength.

"I'm afraid," he admitted.

"I know you are," she whispered, and pulled him into her arms. She held him tight as she talked into his ear. "Life hadn't been fair for you. God knows you've suffered more than your share, but you can't let that destroy you."

"What if it already has?"

Stacy felt the tears roll down her cheek at his words. The man was so beaten, so broken. He was so screwed up.

"You can't give up," she said. "You can't let her down this time."

Stacy pulled back and looked him in the eyes. "You need to fight for her with everything within you. Not because you need her to carry all of your emotional baggage, and not because you want her to fix you. Do it because you love her. Do it because she needs you back on your feet and in her world again. Do it because neither one of you will heal unless you face this together. And for God's sake, let us help you. You don't have to do this alone."

It was as if he was lifted from the dark depths and now was floating on water. It was a stormy, treacherous sea, but he wasn't drowning. He was treading water, holding on to the life preserver he'd suddenly been thrown.

"How am I ever going to get my life back?" he asked.

"You trust your lawyer," Stacy smiled. "Think you can do that?"

They talked for hours about the case, about what had happened when he turned himself in and when he was released. House didn't ask any more questions. He did, however, answer all of hers. He told her about his so-called death and Wilson's illness, his research and his the arrangement he'd made with Dr. Benjamin to trade diagnostics for medical tests. He didn't withhold the details of his life in hiding, even though some of his ways of survival were somewhat questionable. No matter how difficult the question, he answered with honesty and directness. Stacy was grateful for his cooperation, even if he was still surly and sarcastic.

"The only real obstacle we have is the fraud," she sighed. "Even with the extenuating circumstances, you faking your death can't really be excused."

"They shouldn't be able to call it fraud if I didn't gain anything," House was being classically flippant. "I should get off on a technicality at least."

Stacy looked at him, curious and intrigued by the offhanded comment. "What do you mean 'you didn't gain anything'?"

"Caregiving may a noble duty and provide rewards in heaven if you believe that kind of thing, but it really is more a sacrifice than a pleasure."

"What happened to your life insurance?" she asked.

House frowned, wondering where she was headed with this line of questioning. "It's in an account, why?"

"You didn't spend it?"

"No," he said. "It went to Wilson, but we didn't spend any of it. Since there wasn't a body, the funeral costs were minimal. He just wrote a check for that. We lived off his money and savings."

"And after he passed?"

"He had already transferred everything to me," he clarified. "Everything you see is because of him."

"What about all of your stocks and savings? Did that go to him when you died? Because that would mean it's part of what you're spending, and…."

"Everything I had went to Rachel."

"Rachel?"

"Cuddy's kid," he explained. "It was put in a trust until she's 21. Wilson took care of that."

Stacy was speechless.

"What?" he frowned.

"Lisa didn't tell me."

"She didn't' know." House shrugged.

Stacy smiled as she leaned over and began to gather the files and notes to put them away. "I'll never understand how you can be such a genius and so clueless at the same time."

"Why? Because I left the kid my money?" He wasn't sure if he was confused or offended. Perhaps both.

"Because you did the right thing."

She turned to face him. "I am going to talk to the DA on Monday. I'll file all the paperwork and start the process to bring you back to life, and see if we can't reach a settlement for your release."

"You think it will work?"

"There's a good chance," she said. "But if it doesn't, I will push to get a hearing on the schedule within the week."

She stood and picked up her briefcase. "But I need you to stay put."

"What else am I going to do?"

"No, listen to me," she grabbed his arm, taking a strong tone with him. "I need you to not think so much. Don't think of creative ways to help things along. Don't try to live up your last days as a dead man, and don't try to play lawyer. Let me do my job and get you out of this mess without any further damage. Got it?"

House nodded 'okay.'

"And don't you dare try to see Lisa." Not surprising, he balked at this. "This is not just for your protection, Greg. It's for hers. She doesn't need to be implicated in any way. Don't give the prosecution something to use against you…or her! Don't risk it, not until I speak with the DA and get the ball rolling. Do you understand?"

"Don't think. Don't act. Don't move. Don't see Cuddy," he repeated. "Got it."

"This is not a joke."

"I know."

"You can't screw up this time."

"I know."

Stacy sighed. She had the distinct feeling he wasn't going to follow directions well.


	5. Chapter 4 - Treatment Part 1

**Finding A Cure – Chapter 4: Treatment, Part 1**

Lisa Cuddy was no Nervous Nellie. She didn't hide under the bed when things went bump in the night, and she certainly didn't allow the sound of tiny ticks against her window to incapacitate her with fear. It was probably just the just a tree limb hitting the window, nothing to get worked up about. She flung the sheet off her and reached for her robe.

She startled as another tick sounded against the glass. This time she saw it. The tiny pebble.

Cuddy stepped over to the window and peered down into the night.

 _House._

He stepped out of the shadows.

"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Cuddy is the sun!"

She shook her head when she heard him speak, and slid the window open.

"Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she."

"What are you doing, House?"

He looked up, drinking in the vision of her. Her eyes were gleaming in the moonlight, her hair fell across her shoulders, and her robe clung to her breasts as she leaned against the window sill.

"I'm either practicing for Shakespeare in the Park, or I came to talk to you," he shrugged. "It's hard to say which."

"You're not wearing the tights for Shakespeare."

"Damn," he said. "Then it's a good thing I brought gelato and wine."

He held them up in the air so she could see his offerings. She didn't respond.

"Lemon gelato," he tried to tempt her.

Cuddy closed the window and locked it.

House looked down at the pint sized container. He could feel the condensation on his fingers as the frost began to melt.

He didn't know how long he had been waiting for her. It could have been only seconds. He lost all sense of time when he saw her close the window and disappear into the dark.

He was taking a risk coming here: not just because he could get caught, but more that she could toss him to the curb. Even though Stacy had convinced him Cuddy wouldn't totally reject him, he still wasn't clear on what kind of reception he would receive if he reached out to her. Thus, the gelato and wine. It was a test.

If she chose the wine, he wasn't totally out of the woods with her. Wine meant she was tense, undecided and struggling with her thoughts. It meant she had weighed her options, balanced the pros and cons, and made a final decision, but she wasn't happy about it. She wasn't confident that she was doing the right thing. The wine would take the edge off, but she would taste the complexity of the wine and only hope for a smooth finish.

Now, if she chose the gelato, it meant he was in the clear. She was relaxed and feeling confident with her decision. She had reconciled the good and the bad, and was not only comfortable with the bitter and sweet combination, but she found comfort in it.

On the other hand, there was a third option he hadn't considered. She could just leave him on the porch until the gelato melted and the wine turned to vinegar. She could reject his visit. Just because he needed to see her didn't mean she felt the same. Obviously giving him a chance at life wasn't the same as giving him a chance at friendship…or love…or anything else for that matter. Only an idiot would make that leap.

He shouldn't have come. He should have listened to Stacy instead of arrogantly assuming she'd…

The lock unlatched on the door just before it swung open.

Cuddy stepped out onto her back deck and gave him an accusing glare. "You're not supposed to be here."

It was hard to accept her reprimand when the corner of her lip twitched up in a grin.

"Stacy can bite me," he said. "I took two taxis and a bus, then I walked through three back yards and jumped that fence to get here. No one saw me."

Cuddy shook her head. "You hope."

"Oh come one," he took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. "It's more likely someone saw you last night at the bar."

He had been playing at a local piano bar down the street from his place for several months now. They allowed him to use the piano in exchange for one night of two sets a week. It was a good trade for him. He needed the music and they needed the entertainment.

Apparently she had found out about it and decided to lurk in the back to watch him perform.

Her eyes widened, surprised he'd known she was there.

"Busted."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't respond. Instead, she held two spoons up in front of her.

 _Gelato._

"Good choice," he sighed in relief and took one of the spoons from her. "Good choice for me, not for you. Either choice works for you obviously. In fact, here. Take both."

Cuddy smiled at his rambling and took the pint of gelato from his hand.

His eyes followed her as she moved to sit on the bench that was attached to the rail surrounding the deck. She was wearing a robe much like the old grey one she was so fond of: ankle length, tied at the waist. It clung to her curves and left a deep V at her cleavage.

She turned sideways on the bench and bent her legs toward her chest so her bare feet could rest on the wood planking. "You going to keep staring at my ass, or are you going to sit?"

House grinned.

"I wasn't staring at your ass," he said. "I was staring at your boobs."

She rolled her eyes, and he could see how the blue of the fabric enhanced the blue of her eyes. He always loved seeing her like this. Natural Cuddy. Relaxed, no make-up, her hair in loose curls, wild around her face. Magnificent.

"Did you like the concert?" He sat beside her on the bench, his thigh lightly touching her toes.

"Of course," she said, as she took her first bite of gelato. "I always liked to hear you play."

He hadn't played for her often. The first time hadn't actually been planned. She'd had a late board meeting, so he'd gone home to decompress after a rather difficult case. He'd poured two fingers of whiskey and went straight for the piano. He'd gone through quite an eclectic repertoire when he was startled from his reverie by movement on the sofa.

" _How long have you been here?"_

" _Since Un Sospiro," she said._

 _Liszt was a challenging piece. He'd made quite a few mistakes, but she probably hadn't noticed. He wasn't in practice mode, trying to improve his technique, he was playing for the pure joy of it. He'd just moved passed the mistakes as he would in a performance._

" _Don't stop." Her eyes were heavy lidded and a dark, smoky grey. She was aroused._

" _Come here," he softly commanded._

 _He'd reached for her when she'd reached the bench, but she'd stopped him._

" _Play for me," she said._

 _When she looked at him like that, he'd do just about anything for her._

 _He'd lifted her onto the piano. "I'd rather play you."_

" _That can be arranged," she said seductively. "After…"_

 _She pushed away from him and stretched out along the top of the baby grand._

" _You know, in my fantasies you're usually naked on my piano," he teased as his fingers moved on the keys._

 _He played River Flows in You. He'd seen her stop working on the files she'd brought home when it had come on her iPod, closing her eyes and becoming enraptured by the music. Since then, he'd been practicing it whenever he got the chance in the hopes of surprising her one day. Now that the opportunity had presented itself, he felt nervous and exposed. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the notes and rhythm, until the natural magic of the music pulled him in and he was lost in the moment._

 _Music was his safe place, his refuge. He'd fought hard for it, went through many painful battles with his father to keep it, hid its secret power over him from others to protect and nurture it. Music never let him down. It didn't turn him away because of his shortcomings and failures. It transformed them. When he was one with his music, he was whole. Sharing it with her was the greatest trust he could give her. He wasn't sure she understood that. He wasn't sure he wanted her to even know it._

 _The final note was reverberating in the air when he opened his and looked at her…sprawled out naked before him._

The few times he did get a chance to play for her, the results were always similarly soul baring and fantasy fulfilling.

"Why are you here?" Her voice was soft and sexy.

"This could be my last night of freedom," he shrugged. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

"Stacy said the case looked promising."

She was concerned. He shouldn't read too much into it. And yet he did.

"It's hard to imagine." His voice was tinged with the worry and fear he was trying to hide. "Whatever happens, I wanted to…I needed to…"

It shouldn't be this difficult.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Cuddy turned the spoon in her mouth, licking the last bit of gelato from the edge. "You think a foot massage is the way to show your appreciation?"

House paused for a second, puzzled by her words, until he realized at some point during their brief interaction, he'd unconsciously taken her foot in his hand. His thumbs were sliding along her arch and kneading the area just at the crease of her toes.

He didn't know what to do. Should he immediately drop her foot and apologize? Should he keep going as if it were completely natural? Perhaps he should just make a sarcastic comment about the damage caused by her do-me pumps.

House quickly realized he'd been holding her foot still in his lap for too long. The moment had shifted from an unconscious mistake to an awkward moment.

"There are probably better ways to thank you," he said, and braved a look in her direction.

Cuddy placed her other foot in his lap before tilting the gelato pint toward him and offering him a bite. He silently scooped some out and took a bite before placing the spoon at his side and returning to the massage.

"You're welcome." She gasped as his thumbs hit a tender place. He applied pressure to the bottom, pushing toward her to flex her calf and stretch her Achilles, before gliding his thumbs from ankle to toe.

"You're not playing fair," she closed her eyes and moaned

"Neither are you."

"What have I done?" she asked. "Besides hire Stacy as your lawyer."

He pushed his thumb into a sensitive spot and held it there.

"You kissed me."

Her eyes opened at that. Their eyes locked.

"And you've been obsessing over it?"

"It's what I do."

Cuddy grinned and moved her other foot into his lap. House automatically began massaging it.

"Yes, you do," she teased.

House watched her take another bite of gelato. He wondered if she was intentionally teasing him with the way she licked that spoon or if it was just that innate sexuality of hers that was coming out to seduce him at such an inopportune time.

"That's all you're going to say?" he asked.

"What else should I say?"

"You could tell me why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"There's always a reason."

Cuddy stopped eating and considered him.

"It couldn't just be that I wanted to?"

"With all that's happened?" he balked. "And don't pretend I've been the only one obsessing about it. You're as obsessive as I am. You just look better doing it."

Cuddy quirked her brow. "That's a matter of opinion."

"So what did you come up with?"

She pulled away from him and stood. "Acceptance."

"The fifth stage of grief." He watched her walk to the corner of the deck and toss the empty gelato container in the trash. "So what, you were able to find some sort closure? It was a goodbye kiss?"

"It's not that complicated, House," she said. "It's nothing new. I wanted to kiss you. I always want to kiss you."

The words echoed in his head.

 _I always want to kiss you._

He understood all too well. It didn't matter how much you denied it or fought it; it didn't matter how much you 'willed' it to pass. The desire was consuming. It lived and thrived in your subconscious, but it creeped into your conscious mind through every sign of weakness and vulnerability, at every hint of relief. Fight or flight, it was always there.

Only now it wasn't just about fear of vulnerability, or commitment, or a lack of control, or any of the things that kept them apart over the years. After what he'd done, all of those things looked like just mere bumps in the road. He'd increased her struggle exponentially. Now there were actual fears with undeniable confirmation of instability, of violence.

 _Domestic Violence._

House looked off into the night, into the darkness that could be his soul. He hated that he'd hurt her. He hated that he'd turned something so beautiful into such a tangled, mutilated mess. Every comfortable moment between them would be marred with underlying fear and mistrust. There could never be the intimacy they'd once shared – that inherent "knowing" that existed between them – without the shroud of destruction.

 _Why didn't you fight for her?_

When Stacy had asked him that question, it was like a grenade exploding deep inside him. He could feel the shockwaves; he was shaken by the seismic waves pushing through him.

He'd been so devastated at the time. He was still raw from the fears that led up to it and dizzy from the actions that followed. It had been easy for him to relapse. Too easy. When he'd seen her at the door, for a brief second he felt safe and calm. She was there with him. He hadn't lost her.

And then he had. Her words pummeled him. He heard them over and over again, even after she'd left. Blow after blow. Crushing him. All he could think about was stopping it, getting the upper hand. He had to flip the weight, he had to hit back. He had to pummel back, hard and fast, so no hits could reach him again. It was a street fight, down and dirty. No penalties. No rules. This was a fight for life and there was no time to think of the consequences.

By the time he'd stopped flailing, the carnage was complete. She was lifeless, a shell of the person she'd been. She roamed the halls, going through the motions, doing everything expected of a Dean of Medicine and nothing expected of Lisa Cuddy. Her carapace was perfection, but beneath it, the woman he loved was gone.

He was beyond pain at that point. He was just a bleeding, infected wound. He could almost feel the flies eating at his flesh. Almost.

He tried to focus on something else – anything else – to give him time to heal. The hookers, the games, his team…

 _It's no wonder Cuddy broke up with you._

Thirteen's words hit him hard. He was too damaged to ever have a chance at life, at love. There was too much missing.

Restoring the muscle in his leg had become an obsession. It had backfired. Horribly backfired. They'd cut into his leg again, and she'd saved it. She'd saved him. And yet all that he saw was the mangled mess of tissue and bone he had become. He'd never survive. The last trace of balance had been lost and gravity was pulling him down into a molten core. He was imploding and if he didn't find something to hold on to, it would to too late.

He'd reached for a hairbrush. She'd reached out to someone else. At least he'd believed that at the time. Her hand was on his shoulder. She was surrounded by family, safe and secure, and smiling. She was ethereal. And he couldn't breathe. The crushing heat and weight of the molten rock was burning him, burying him. He had to stop it. He had to break free. If something inside him could just break free, maybe he could transform. Maybe he could be that phoenix rising from the ashes. Maybe he could finally be free.

"I'm so sorry, Cuddy," he whispered.

She was facing him, her hands in the pockets of her rob as she stared at him. Her own haunted thoughts were reflected in her eyes. He should say more. He should tell her how much he regretted what he'd done. How much it haunted him. How much he missed…them.

"I'm sorry too."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"We both screwed up, House," she sighed. "It wasn't just you. You can't keep beating yourself up and punishing yourself for what happened."

"But I was the one who…"

"It's not a contest, House," she interrupted. "You don't win a prize for causing the most damage."

"Really? It seems like there should be a booby prize at least…metaphorically of course."

The joke fell flat. They were well beyond the point where bravado would provide an acceptable shield. He stretched his leg out in front of him and began to rub his thigh.

Cuddy watched his hand move up and down. She could feel his distress. It may be manifesting in his leg, but it was rooted in emotion, in the words he couldn't say, in the longing to say them.

"You don't think I know what you're going through?" She waited for him to look up at her. "You don't think I understand what you're feeling?"

Cuddy pushed her hair away from her face and rubbed her forehead as she considered what she was about to say.

"I think about it all the time. Everything that happened. Everything we said and did, everything we should have done…You're not the only one who obsesses." she said. "And you're right, saying I'm sorry and talking about it doesn't change anything. Nothing we say can fix it…I'm not even sure I want it fixed."

House grimaced and closed his eyes against the ache in his chest.

"You weren't just an experiment, House."

She took a step forward, dropping her hands and nervously tightening the tie on her robe. "I know I made you feel that way, but that's not how it was."

He opened his eyes and faced her.

"I wanted to be with you more than anything else in the world," she said. "You said I don't know what love is…well, I don't think you know love when it's right there in front of you."

"I know you…"

"No," she interrupted. "I don't want you to talk. You had your chance, now it's my turn."

House sat back, dismayed and anxious, but resigned. This is how it had to be. She needed to have her say and he needed to hear her out. He needed to feel her anger and wrath…her pain.

"I fought hard to become the Dean of Medicine," she began. "It wasn't just handed to me. I fought hard for it. Every prejudice, every supervisor and manager who thought I'd sleep my way to a promotion, every condescending ass who thought the little woman just wasn't strong enough, or smart enough, or tenacious enough to be in that position. You threatened everything I worked for. You undercut it all."

House bowed his head, embarrassed and ashamed. He had never meant to undermine her, any more than he had meant to hurt her. It was just their game. It was what they did, who they were. He had been too focused on the rush they created together to be concerned with how it was affecting anyone outside their bubble. He had been too fixated on the pure exhilaration of being in her trajectory to even notice how others were reacting, much less how they were impacting her.

He was selfish and self-centered. Even when things happened that brought the pernicious consequences of his actions to light, he somehow managed to manipulate the situation, resolve it in a manner that produced minimal damage. At least, he'd convinced himself of that.

Everything had a tipping point. He'd thought he'd reached it when he went to Mayfield. She'd been shattered by his mental collapse. He knew that. It was why she'd put so much energy and time into trying to create a relationship with Lucas, why she was so determined not to give him a chance. She'd been running, as usual. But then she'd stopped, and everything changed. She'd given him a chance and he'd tasted true happiness…until he'd found her real tipping point.

"I didn't want to love you," she said. "You scare me."

House flinched. Her words hurt. What they implied crushed.

"Everything always feels so precarious between us," she admitted. "Like any minute I'm going to lose control. You know I'm not good with that."

His lips lifted on one side, a slight grin of acknowledgment, but he looked at her with sad eyes.

"You intentionally push that control every chance you get," she said. "I use to think you were a sadist who got some pleasure out of tormenting me that way, but then I started to wonder if you did it so you could catch me when it all spiraled out of control. Maybe you just wanted to rescue me. You felt like I was always rescuing you, so in some weird way you were balancing the scales."

He didn't turn away from her, but his eyes shifted to the side and she knew she'd hit home.

"I actually get that," she told him. "If there's not just the right balance between us, everything starts falling. I try to latch onto the things I know, the things that seem safe and stable, but it happens so fast. Before I can find a way to stabilize, it's like the atmosphere is burning a hole in me and I'm about to explode. It terrifies me."

His eyes had locked on hers as she spoke. He didn't think anyone would understand what he went through, what he felt when he was with her. He took everything to the extreme, dialed it up to eleven, as Wilson once told him. He thought all of those feelings and reactions was just part of his obsessive nature. He thought he was alone.

He could feel his heart beating in his chest as the tears began to pool along her lids.

"But I can't pull away from you. I can't break this…" she searched for words in the sea of emotion brewing between them. "This magnetic force that's between us. I've tried. I've really tried, but when you're not there, I just…drift. It feels…"

It was so hard to explain the desolation she'd experienced these past couple of years without him in her life.

"Like there's no oxygen," he said, finishing her thought. "Like there's no gravity to hold you, or ground you."

He slowly stood and took a step towards her, his eyes never leaving her.

"You're alone and everything is black and you're sucked into the vacuum of space where nothing can exist."

Cuddy looked up at him, stunned at the perfection of his description. She could see the discernment in his eyes…the empathy…the recognition. He didn't just understand what she was feeling, he had experienced it.

She reached her hand out and lightly touched the fabric on his chest. "I need you in my orbit, House," she whispered. "I don't want to run from it any more. I don't want to hide it or deny it. I just need to figure out how to be there without either of us self-destructing."

House lifted his fingers to her cheek, lightly running her hand along her jaw. The air was pregnant with yearning and desire. They were surrounded by a chord of warmth and affection, a thread that had always been woven into their connection, but now weighed heavy and secure the space they'd created. Cuddy breathed in the life it created; he fueled by its strength and power.

"I'm still so in love with you," he breathed.

He'd never told her enough. He'd been reluctant, even apathetic.

 _Words don't matter. Actions matter._

Except his actions hadn't shown the depths of his love, had they? His actions had been contradictory and confusing.

Cuddy closed her eyes and leaned into his hand.

His touch was barely there, just a whisper on her skin, and yet she felt it ignite every nerve in its path. But his words…She couldn't help but remember how difficult it had been to say to words in the past, how hungry she'd been to hear them. Now, the way he whispered them with such wonder and awe – such adoration – left her lightheaded and weak in the knees.

House couldn't take his eyes off her. He was captivated by her beauty, by her inherent sensuality. She could turn him inside out with just a glance, but when they touched, when they kissed…

The touch of her lips on his was subtle and delicate. It would have been imperceptible if he wasn't hyper aware of her every move, her fragrance, her taste.

She tilted her head, and kissed him again, tugging slightly on his lower lip as she slowly pulled away.

His eyes were glossy as they stared down at her. He was desperate with a thirst only she could quench. He wanted more. He needed more.

His hand crept slowly down her neck, traced the line of her clavicle, and moved to her shoulder. He cupped it lightly before sliding down her arm to take care hand.

Cuddy looked down as their fingers entwined. It was so much like the first time: when she'd found him in his bathroom, lost and broken.

 _I love you. I wish I didn't, but I can't help it._

So much had happened since then; so much that should have killed this fervor between them. Those months after the break-up were so toxic with anger and bitterness. They had been unable to find their way back to the source of their connection, to replenish the reservoir that fed their friendship. The depth of betrayal and the severity of their wounds had left their love impaired. It should have died a natural death. But it was as strong as it had ever been.

House kissed her. It wasn't cautious or tentative; it was needy and covetous. It was hungry, and she was the sustenance he required.

She responded in full. Her tongue battled with his, searching and seeking for more. Her arms were suddenly on his neck and his hands cupped her hips, pulling her closer to him.

Cuddy moaned.

He was hard, and hot, and his taste was perfection. It had been so long, and she couldn't get enough of him. She pushed at him, keeping her lips on his as her hands ran over his chest and abdomen.

When his legs hit the back of the bench, House sat rather abruptly, pulling her along with him. Cuddy released a throaty laugh and straddled him.

Her robe was gaping open, revealing the baby doll tank top she wore. Her nipples were hard, their shadows visible beneath the white fabric. He quickly pulled at the robe to release the tie completely and felt her grind against his erection.

He wanted to rip the clothes from her body and drive into her. He wanted to feel her surround him, to feel that sense of belonging, the need and power. He wanted to feel the warmth of home that he'd felt in her arms.

Cuddy met him with equal desire. She fumbled with the zipper on his jeans and House thought he might explode at the feel of her hands against him.

He groaned, and Cuddy paused.

House froze.

His body screamed its frustration, but his mind had taken charge.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he said. He leaned his forehead against hers as his hands ran a soothing path up and down her back.

"You want to stop?"

"No," he admitted. "But we should talk."

She didn't want to talk; she wanted to feel. Being in his arms again was intoxicating. It shouldn't be. She knew that. But she didn't want to think about the past anymore. She didn't want to deal with all of the pain and baggage. She just wanted to know the rapture of being with him again.

But she could feel the tension and worry emanating from him. His thoughts had crept into the moment and that couldn't be reversed.

"You want to talk?" she asked.

"No."

Cuddy gave him a sexy grin. "What do you want?"

His look was serious and intense.

"I want to be inside you," he acknowledged what was evident between them.

"But…" She urged him to continue.

"But I don't want this to be the only time," he said. "I don't want you to regret it. I don't want you to wake up tomorrow and remember all the things I've done and hate me because great sex is not enough to heal all that's happened."

"It's not?" she teased.

He frowned; and she cupped his face in her hands, shaking him gently. "Ugh, you are so frustrating."

"I know," he responded. "But I need to know what we're doing."

Cuddy sighed, and dropped her hands to his chest.

"What if I don't know?" she responded honestly.

House closed his eyes, torn between his desire and his need. He wanted to make love to her. God he wanted to make love to her. But he needed more…

"I'm supposed to hate you," she said. "I'm supposed to be furious with you and want to take revenge…but I don't feel any of that."

House brushed her hair off her shoulder and ran his hands along her arms.

"I should stay away from you," he sadly stated.

"And I shouldn't have called Stacy," she proclaimed. "I shouldn't have hired her, and I certainly shouldn't help with your defense."

"Why did you?"

"Because it doesn't matter what everyone thinks I should or shouldn't do," she said. "It matters what I feel and what I want…and I can't let you go."

She remembered a time when he battled with a similar problem. He was making mistakes, losing patients, fumbling with his puzzles. He blamed her; he blamed his relationship with her. And yet, all of the negatives didn't point to the obvious conclusion.

 _I'll always choose you._

The most disturbing, frightening and beautiful words he'd said to her.

"I can go back to life as a zombie, or I can choose to feel," she stated. "I choose to feel."

She reached up and ran her hand along the line of his beard, down to trace his lips and then back up again.

"I choose you."

House moved to hug her, but she pulled away. He wasn't sure what to do or say. She'd just made a pretty big admission. Monumental, in fact. This wasn't the same woman who ran from him and fought him, who tried to control and manipulate him for her own sense of safety and protection. This wasn't the woman he'd feared and attacked, who he'd tried so desperately to change for.

No, this woman was looking at him with eyes wide open. She'd seen him at his weakest, when his body betrayed him and he was left forever handicapped. She'd seen him as his lowest, when his mind had failed him and he'd walked away from her straight into a mental institution. She'd seen him at his worst, when he deliberately crashed his car into her home in a futile attempt to break the chains that held them together.

Now she was looking at him as if he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She knew him. And yet somehow she still wanted him in her life.

Cuddy picked up his cane and handed it to him. He sat quietly watching her as she edged away from him and across the deck, the wine he'd brought hung from her left hand. And then she disappeared through the door she'd come out of earlier.

House followed her.

The door led to a large kitchen with an island in the middle. The wine bottle was on the counter.

House locked the door behind him and walked toward the one light he saw. The house was dark; he only caught a glimpse of the dining and living room as he crept down the hall.

Cuddy turned to face him when he stepped into the doorway. She had removed her robe and was standing before him in just the pajama set.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Cuddy pulled the tank over hear head and tossed it aside. House stood with his mouth agape. Her bare breast jiggled in front of him as she removed her shorts, and when she stood naked before him with only a sexy grin, House leaned against the door frame for support.

"God, Cuddy." House gasped for breath.

She thought he might pass out.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded dumbly. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She was even more amazing than he remembered, and his memory held every detail for ready recall.

"You're overdressed," she said as she moved lithely toward him.

"You're beautiful."

Cuddy smiled and lifted the hem of his t-shirt to pull it over his head.

"So are you," she responded.

He grimaced. She shook her head and reached for him.

House watched as she quickly unbuckled his belt, unhooked his jeans and pushed them down his legs.

"Shoes," she said. He braced himself against the wall and used his feet to kick them free.

Cuddy didn't wait to finish stripping him.

He was standing before her completely naked, his erection quite intense as he stared at her.

"Once upon a time, I would see you like this, and I'd think I would blow my wad before anything ever happened," he suddenly admitted.

"And now?"

"It's still a very real possibility."

Cuddy smirked.

"I wouldn't want that," she teased, and ran her index finger along his shaft.

House hissed and quickly moved to hang his cane on the door frame before he reached for her.

She was in his arms in seconds. His mouth on hers, devouring her, as his hands slid down her hips to her thighs. She gasped when he lifted her, and her legs automatically wrapped around his waist.

It was only five steps to the bed, and he limped them with ease before dropping her onto the mattress.

"How long do we have?" he asked.

She braced herself on her elbows and spread her legs open for him.

"All night," she answered.

As House slowly began to kiss and lick his way up her body, he thought a night wouldn't be long enough.

* * *

AN: Song Inspiration - Joni Mitchell, Both Sides Now


	6. Chapter 5 - Treatment Part 1

**Finding A Cure - Chapter 5: Treatment Part 2**

He moved slowly up her legs.

She could feel his beard scratch along her skin. It was in sensual contrast to his soft lips kissing and nipping along her calf, around her knee and up her thigh. His touch was a whisper against the sensitized nerves, and Cuddy shivered when his fingers lightly touched the inside of her knees, spreading her legs as his shoulders pressed between them.

House breathed her in. She was using a new body wash, something with the scent of a tropical flower and a hint of earthy sweetness - cinnamon perhaps – but it was the underlying fragrance that left him intoxicated.

"I remember your smell," he sighed.

The tip of his nose traced the line of her pubic hair. She could feel the rhythm of his warm breath at the crease of her thigh – in and out, inhale, exhale – as he drew closer to the center of her desire. Her chest grew warm and her breasts felt heavy, swollen. She could literally feel her nipples puckering, feel the pulse of electricity at the tips as they yearned for his touch. The heat quickly spread, running along an invisible chord from the tip of her breasts, through her abdomen and down between her legs. Cuddy stretched her arms above her head and reveled in the knowledge and awareness of her body awakening from a long slumber.

"So good."

She felt the vibration from his voice against her mound, her flesh highly attuned to the cadence of his breath, the hum deep in his throat as he continued to take her in and savor her. Her lips were already swollen with desire, her clit pebbled and pounding. Cuddy pressed her heels into the mattress and pushed up toward him, longing for what he teased, needing what he promised.

His tongue slid along her slit and she groaned in complete euphoria.

House growled. He had been starving for the taste of her, famished with need and desire, and now to finally have a taste…

Cuddy writhed beneath him. It seemed as if he searched every nerve along her labia, exploring every dip and dimple before landing on her clit. His tongue was soft and stiff; his breath was hot, until he lightly blew on her, both cooling and engulfing her in flames before he began greedily sucking on her.

"Oh, god," she moaned, her legs had wrapped around him. Her heels were pushing into his back as her hands gripped his head. Her body was hypersensitive. The heat had quickly engulfed her body, the cool air in the room unable to squelch the liquid fire pooling and moving inside her.

It had been so long, too long. She tried to relish the feeling, to fully experience each flutter and twitch of pleasure. She allowed herself to surrender to the emotions that had opened up inside her, to bask in the radiance of the love that too often frightened them, but always gave them life. She looked down at him, trying to focus on the vision of him, the feel of him. She was so completely aware of him, and yet she was desperate for more.

From her angle, she could see the bald spot developing on the crown of his head. Her hands moved along the edges and her fingers ran through his hair. She felt a quick wave of tenderness and affection wash through her heart. They'd only been kids the first time they'd been together like this. Now, their bodies were showing age; time and trials had altered their composition. Layers of experience and maturity had created lines of art, deepened the shadows and brightened the lights. Her memories of him throughout the years were blended and mixed, the movement and transition, the strokes of color were a reflection of the very essence that had kept her gravitating to him time and time again. He was – simply - magnificent.

His hands cupped her hips, lifting her to a better angle for him to devour her. Her hands dropped to her sides, clinching the sheets in her fist as the tides of passion and desire began to build in her body. When his finger slipped inside her she cried out, her body moving in that complex choreography between need and defense.

There was no resistance. There was only sensation, and pleasure, and need. The sudden burst of light. The submersion into fully awakened unconsciousness. The explosion of lust and love and longing through every nerve in her body.

He was lapping her up, catching the tide, and consuming her. She was his every desire, his craving, his sustenance. He'd been desolate and starving, unable to quench his thirst or fill his hunger. Everything had been so dark and empty, lifeless; his heart and soul emaciated. But now she was here. He could see her, touch her, tastes her. He could feel the life returning as he became more and more immersed in her. She was like air and water and nutrients and he felt alive. He was hot and hard, melting and reviving. He could hear everything, feel everything: her whimpers and moans, her soft skin and liquid heat, her muscles moving beneath…

Cuddy laughed, still teetering on the edge of delirium, and pulled at his hair.

"I want you."

There was nothing he wanted more, and yet he still didn't rush it. He kissed a wavering path up her abdomen to her breasts. He lifted and cupped the mounds as his tongue traced the circle of one areola. He sucked her hardened nipple into his mouth and felt her chest vibrate against his lips when she groaned. The salt from the sheen of sweat on her skin filled his taste buds. He could feel the pulse of blood through her veins, hear the quickened beat of her heart. He heard the air flowing in and out of her lungs, and the whimper and moans from her lips. He felt her arms and legs around him, her fingers moving along his back and shoulders.

He was so completely immersed in her. The walls he'd spent a lifetime fortifying had been slowly eroding beneath the surface, at the source of his need for her. Pieces of brick and mortar had chipped away beneath the flood of pain and disappointment, but it was the tidal wave of his own making that had rocked his foundation and destabilized him. Now, the levees were collapsing beneath the tides of emotion, crumbling as images and memories flashed through his mind like a strobe.

"House, please," she begged.

She felt him move against her, his arms moving beside her as he supported himself. The tip of his erection sliding along her folds were both a tease and a torment. She strained her hips against him and he pushed into her in an invasion of fullness and pleasure.

The air was vacuumed from his lungs. Her walls surrounded him, gripping him in a slick, sensuous clinch. He couldn't move. He was overcome, engulfed in the embrace of home. The contractions were welcoming, seeking to pull him deeper in, to hold him in a place he'd long given up hope of knowing again.

She felt the overpowering content of fullness, the need to be still and experience battling with the urgency to move and know. When she felt him trembling, her hands slid along his neck to cup his jaw. Her thumbs ran along the wet skin of his cheek.

Cuddy opened her eyes; his were closed. But she could see the trail of tears. She could feel the moisture on his skin and in his beard. She pulled at his jaw, tilting his head up and silently urging him to look at her.

When their eyes locked, another tear beaded on his long lashes before falling unbidden from his lid.

Cuddy knew how exposed and vulnerable he felt, and the tears in her own eyes begin to pool. There was something happening that went far beyond attraction and need. It was more than sex. It was something so much more profound, and he was overwhelmed. She suddenly felt the same.

She was afraid to move, afraid to speak. She'd never felt closer to him than in this moment, and yet she'd never been so confused and uncertain. She felt lost and found at the same time, reaching out into the frightening darkness and finding the confidence and familiarity of home.

"I never thought I'd be here again," he whispered.

His voice was full of wonder and awe, but the statement was imbued with the weight of remorse and shame. He was so raw and honest, so real.

"I know," she said as she gently caressed his face.

He closed his eyes and melted into her touch. His heart was fluttering, swelling with a hope he'd never allowed himself to feel. He yearned for more, more tenderness, more assurance, more of the emotional intimacy her touch promised. His body had other ideas. It was demanding, urging him to move, to drive deep and seed himself in her.

Cuddy shifted beneath him and her internal walls tightened around him. House groaned and opened his eyes to look at her again. It was his undoing. His hips began to move. Thrusting. Pumping. Slow and hard. She pushed up into him, answering him with a steady rhythm of her own. Deeper. Harder. Faster. They were reaching a frantic pace when Cuddy felt herself propelled into a space of flashing lights and bursting colors, of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

House arched and threw his head back as his own orgasm overtook him.

If he was a believing man, he would say it was a religious experience. What he was feeling was so far beyond physical, or even emotional. It was transcendent. The seat of shame and penance was replaced with grace and forgiveness. He was fully clothed in a robe of unmerited favor, baptized in the waters of a love that gave him hope of deliverance, of restoration.

He was still inside her long after his release. His muscles lax, his body replete. She was coming down from her own high, but she could feel him trembling. Cuddy held him close, wrapped in her arms as she kissed his neck and shoulder, enjoying the weight of him against her.

House shifted on top of her, removing some of the pressure from his right leg. The residual contractions of her climax against his sensitized tip was too much for him and he hissed. Cuddy smiled as he rolled to the side, ready to tease and flirt with him. But he didn't look at her. He was still and quiet as he looked away from her. His eyes were glassy and distant, his jaw tight and tense.

"House?"

He didn't answer. She could sense a shift in him, something deep and dark, as if the talons of a black cloud were pulling him into the center of an internal storm. Her brain didn't have a chance to process the sudden change before he moved to the edge of the bed, withdrawing from her physically and emotionally. She could feel it: the chill, the solitude. She could see it in the pallor of his skin and the stiffness in his spine. But it was his reaction to her touch that alarmed her. When she moved toward him, he recoiled. When she reached out to touch him, he blanched. Cuddy thought she might be sick from the uncertainty…and fear.

"House?" He must have heard the apprehension and concern in her voice. His chin dropped to his chest and he squinched his eyes. She saw his fist clinch just before he nervously pushed himself off the bed and limped to the connecting bathroom.

Cuddy stared at his retreating back, stunned and shocked. It felt like the night had suddenly opened a hole beneath her and she was sinking into its darkness. She didn't know what had happened; she didn't know what to think. How could they have so quickly moved from rapture to…what? Rejection? No way. He wasn't rejecting her. Not after what they'd just shared. Not after the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd touched her. Disappointment? It didn't seem possible. Shame? Surely they had moved beyond that as they made love.

Cuddy was lost. Confused. She was frightened.

When she crawled out of the bed and stepped through the bathroom door, she found him on the floor. His right leg was stretched out in front of him, while the left was bent at the knee with his elbow resting on it. His hand was on his forehead; his fingers gripping this hair. He was trembling and there was a thin sheen of sweat forming on his body.

"What is it?" she whispered, cautiously and carefully moving toward him. "Is it your leg? Are you in pain?"

She sat down beside him and touched his back. He cowered at her touch like a wounded animal.

"House, talk to me," she begged. She was more than afraid now. She was terrified. He was slipping away behind a wall she didn't recognize, a shield cloaked in an affliction she couldn't identify. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him against her.

"Don't shut me out. Please don't shut me out." She was desperate to hold on to him, to stop him from sinking and drowning. She couldn't lose him, not now. Not again.

House gasped, choking in the air as he finally turned to look at her. The rims around his eye lids were scarlet and the tears were starting to fall. His blue eyes were wide and frantic, reflecting the fight or flight response that entrapped him. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to rage against the emotions tearing through him like a hurricane. But she was touching him, and holding him. She was pleading with him to stay with her, pulling him into her embrace as she wrapped herself around him.

He collapsed in her arms, the sobs he'd been fighting now overtaking him. He buried his face in her chest and held her so tight she thought he may bruise her. She ran her hands along his back and shoulder, through his hair and along his neck. She was stunned and a bit alarmed, but she didn't try to quiet him.

She could feel the grief radiating off him as the emotions racked his body. She thought back to that moment when their bodies had joined, when all boundaries and pretense had been removed and they'd merged into one entity. That was when the dam had cracked. Now, it was broken. A lifetime of heartache and pain, of loss and despair was now flooding out of him. He was incapable of stopping it or even diverting it; she didn't even try. She just held him. Feeling his pain. His mourning.

He was crying for his lost childhood, the innocence bitterly taken from him at every turn, for the heart that hardened and the hope extinguished as the child fought to survive. He was mourning for lost dreams and opportunities, for the loss of his leg and an even greater loss of trust. He was weeping for the healing and restoration that never came as he sank deeper in a mire of bitterness. He was crying for the years of self-loathing and destruction, the solitude and sarcasm, the pretense and pain. He was feeling…everything. Fully and unreservedly.

Cuddy cried with him, and for him…and when he was too weak to hold himself up, she was his strength. She soothed him with her hands, with soft kisses to his head and whispered words of assurance. House never said a word. He didn't have to. The connection they'd always shared - that bond of understanding - was never more real than it was at the moment. She knew him. She loved him. She forgave him. Perhaps in time, he would learn to forgive himself.

She didn't know how long he had cried, or how long she had held him in the exhausted silence that followed. He lay limp in her arms, drained from the emotional exertion. When she felt the muscles in his back tightening, she knew he was beginning to feel the weight and awkwardness of his vulnerability. She could sense the turmoil rising up in him, feel the frustration and anger synthesizing his defenses. When he pulled away from her, she didn't stop him. He clearly needed space. He needed to regain some control and feel like he was on steady ground again.

"I need to pee," he muttered, not looking at her as he stood and moved to the toilet.

She could see he was embarrassed, perhaps even humiliated if she was reading him properly. He was definitely battling the need to react with the rancor and venom that had always served him well. She wanted to tell him it was okay to cry, that it didn't make him weak, that there was no reason for him to feel ashamed.

"I may take a dump after," he snapped. "You gonna watch that too?"

No, he wouldn't hear anything she had to say. He was too raw. His wounds were exposed and she was too close. Cuddy knew the past was too real; the emotions too strong. He needed some time to deal with this new experience.

But she was afraid to leave him. It was so ingrained in him to withdraw long before he reached this level of openness, she was terrified she would lose him into the darkness that haunted as much as protected him. It would be so easy for him to shut her out, to construct new walls and take up new shields of protection. As much as he needed space, she needed to be with him, to share that plane of vulnerability. She needed to find some kind of balance between them. He may need her support and encouragement, but he wouldn't want to feel it. That would inadvertently put pressure on him to talk or respond, and he most certainly wouldn't know what to say or do under the circumstances. He would feel awkward and helpless, which would make him doubt her sincerity and interpret her reaction as pity. From there, it could very easily turn to a downward spiral. She couldn't let that happen.

"I'm going to make us a snack and open that wine you brought," she said as she stood and moved out the door. "Join me when you're done."

House may have appeared to ignore her, but he heard every word, saw the way her eyes moved over him, felt the battle being waged in her heart and mind. He knew the hurt she felt as he shut her out and slapped her with his harsh words. And he hated himself for it.

He stood in front of the toilet, staring into the bowl and wondered how he was going to recover from this screw-up.

* * *

By the time House made his way to the kitchen, Cuddy had poured two glasses of wine and put out some cheese and grapes. He watched as she peeled a peach. She hadn't bothered with a robe, so as she stood naked at the counter, concentrating on her task, he watched her breasts move in time with her hands.

"Like the view?" she teased without even looking at him.

"Always."

Cuddy grinned, but her heartbeat accelerated. The air in the room had changed when he stepped through the doorway. It was heavy and charged, imbued with the restless tension radiating from him. She could almost feel the adrenalin surge through her veins as her body naturally responded.

He stepped up behind her and kissed her shoulder. It was a gentle touch, soft and feather-like, and yet it left a mass of suspense bearing down on her.

House could sense her tension, could see how she kept her eyes averted and forced herself to appear relaxed. But he could read her. He could always read her.

"My plumbing was clogged," he muttered, and then rolled his eyes as he realized how pathetic it sounded. They both knew it wasn't the aftermath of his sexual release that delayed him in the bathroom. He'd broken down in front of her. Again. How many times could she witness his psychotic breaks before she completely gave up on him? The first time he'd almost lost her to another man. His friend. His rival. A man who offered her a semblance of normalcy when she had most felt the sting of his misery. The last time, he'd driven his breakdown right into her dining room and parked it there. He always left destruction. Of course she was cautious. She was probably ready to run.

Cuddy turned slightly to pass a slice of the peach over her shoulder for him to take into his mouth. House was surprised, but bit into the fruit, watching as she turned to face him.

House found himself puzzled when she didn't look at him with the fear or trepidation he anticipated. Her eyes were not filled with concern and pity, either. Instead, she grinned provocatively at him as she took a bite of the peach slice in her hand, her tongue darting out to catch the nectar dripping from her lips. His eyes followed the movement and he felt a predictably carnal response.

Her eyes roved over him with a mixture of curiosity and desire. And apprehension. He saw it. Dammit. He didn't want to see it, but he saw it. And he understood it.

Cuddy allowed her eyes to move over his naked frame. He was so strong and broken: his eyes wild with fear and uncertainty, his body taut with restraint. His entire being was strained beneath the self-control he commanded.

Years of conditioning had left him shamed by basic emotion, raging against the elemental feelings of hurt and grief. She'd known him long enough to anticipate the hostility and contempt brewing beneath the surface. What she didn't expect was the war raging within him to resist those instincts.

He was living proof of mind over matter as the gentleness he silently commanded blocked the feral beast growing fierce inside him. He was like a caged lion, his eyes pacing behind an invisible cage: the predator restrained, but only for a time. He would either break free or wound himself trying. Nothing would contain the ferocious need inside him.

Cuddy turned away and stretched over the counter to grab a glass of wine. House hissed as she leaned forward, her naked rear sticking out toward him in heart shaped perfection. Cuddy felt his eyes on her and grinned saucily as she handed him the glass.

House downed the liquid in a few quick gulps, hissing air through his teeth as he took the last swallow. Cuddy watched him, realizing it was going to take more than alcohol to release the tautness in him. She turned to reach for the second glass, bowing her body a little more this time as his eyes roved over her backside. She brushed her hand beside the wine cork so it would roll off the counter.

"Oops," she muttered, and backed into House, bending at the waist to retrieve it from the floor.

Her ass brushed against his prick and he growled. His hands gripped her hips and he pushed his erection against her. Her legs were spread to shoulder width and she remained bent over much longer than necessary. She shifted her weight from side to side in an erotic dance as she very slowly moved to stand.

Cuddy glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring at where their bodies touched. His jaw was tight from gritting his teeth and his breath was labored. He was fighting the need to give in to his more primitive instincts, forcing himself to suck air through his flared nostrils and exhale through his mouth.

She braced her hands on the counter, keeping her back arched so she could move against him.

"What are you doing?" he rasped.

Cuddy grinned and pushed back against his cock.

"Waiting to be fucked."

That was it.

House growled and shoved her roughly against the island. His body pushed against her, pressing her chest into the cold granite.

It happened so quickly it took her breath away. His knees braced between her legs, spreading her wide. His hands holding her wrist to the counter. He was pushing into her - quick and deep - and she whimpered as her body sought to accommodate him. He was thick and hard, and the intense feeling of fullness he brought was enough to induce delirium.

He felt her tighten around him, her walls gripping and pulsing. He became crazed, fiercely bucking against her, diving deep into her wet core. He was driven to conquer and possess, to dominate her as he had never done before.

One of his hands held her still while the other traced her spine. There were sounds coming from deep in his throat as he thrust faster. He roughly cupped her ass and gave her cheek a slap. Cuddy gasped and he spanked her again.

"House," she moaned, caught in a vortex of pleasure and pain.

He leaned forward and bit her shoulder. "Oh, God," she cried out when he kissed her neck. The scruff of his beard was the impetus that drove her over the edge.

His hands slid down her arms to cover her hands and he drove into her one last time before his muscles contracted beneath the intensity of his orgasm.

Cuddy lifted her fingers and weaved them through his as he relaxed against her. It was an uncomfortable position: her breasts mashed against the cold surface, his body flush against her back. She wanted to move and stretch, but he was heavy against her, replete and satiated from his release.

She could feel his breathing grow steady as the hot air moved against her skin. He was no longer restless and restrained; he was calm, almost tranquil when he said "Thank you."

Cuddy glanced over her shoulder at him.

"Are we thanking each other for sex now?"

House kissed her back and stood. "Maybe," he whispered. "It seems appropriate given it was more about me than you."

Cuddy turned to face him.

"You don't think I enjoyed it?"

He shrugged shyly and she smiled at him.

"You don't think I sometimes like the idea of you possessing me?" She touched his chest with her hands. "I'm pretty sure I've had quite a few fantasies through the years about you bending me over my desk."

House stepped back and reached down to rub his thigh. "As much as I share that desire," he said. "And I have since the day I met you, by the way. This wasn't about fulfilling a fantasy."

Her eyes searched him until the intensity of her stare made him uncomfortable and he looked away.

"You think crying makes you weak?"

"Of course not," he quickly answered, but he awkwardly shifted his weight and leaned against the counter.

"But it makes you vulnerable," she prodded. "It reveals too much and leaves you open to hurt."

Cuddy recognized the distress he was trying to hide. She wanted to know how much of this was tied to his childhood and how much was rooted in the years he'd been crushed by a fear of pain and the misery that followed.

"No," he said, but then paused and frowned. House glanced down at his feet – looking for all the world like a 6'3" confused child – before he mumbled: "I don't know."

The silence hung in the air as Cuddy studied him. He was such a brilliant man, but a bit of a dimwit when it came to his own feelings.

House began to feel uncomfortable and looked up at her impatiently.

"You're still the most incredible man I've ever known."

He froze.

"What?"

"I know," she said with a gentle smile. "It's shocking isn't it? It's almost like I'm still in love with you."

His eyes widened and his lips parted in surprise.

"You hate that you broke down in the bathroom," she said. "But I think it was one of the most beautiful moments we've shared."

She ran her hands up his chest and around his neck. "I do wish we could find a better place to have these intimate moments," she teased. "The toilet in the background kinda messes with the moment."

He knew she was trying to set his mind at ease, to soothe his bruised ego, but at the same time she was revealing that her heart was opened to him. He wasn't alone in the sea of emotional exposure.

"My breakdowns turn you on, huh?" His hands cupped her waist. "That explains your uncontrollable lust. You've seen every breakdown I've had."

Cuddy understood the import of his words and swallowed the lump that formed in her throat at the admission. He was afraid she saw him as fragile, unstable. He was afraid she would think he was a man she could never depend on, a man incapable of a relationship. He was afraid he'd destroyed his last chance with her.

She thought about reassuring him, but decided to make her own admission instead.

"I've been the cause of every breakdown," she said. "Maybe you should stay away from me."

House blinked. Startled. "You weren't the cause," he argued.

"I was part of it."

Their eyes locked.

In that moment, they both understood the fears that had dictated so many of their actions. It was as if a kind of fog had lifted and they now possessed a new understanding of one another's motivations and desires.

House brushed a strand of hair off her cheek with so much tenderness she thought she'd melt.

"I'm still a jerk," he said. "I haven't changed."

Cuddy turned her face toward his hand and kissed his palm.

"I want another chance," he continued, his voice husky and heavy. "But I need you to know I'm going to screw up again. I wish that weren't true, but it is."

"House…"

"Let me finish," he said and looked at her with clear and questioning eyes. Cuddy tilted her head to the side and focused on what he was trying to tell her.

"If all I have is this night…" he closed his eyes as if the thought were painful. "I don't know how I'll handle that…But if you give me another chance, I'll be there for you this time. It may not be the way you want, but I'll be there. If I can't help around the house, I'll hire someone. If you need a date to those stupid events you have to attend, I'll go. I'll stay at the bar and mock every moron who dares to look at you, but I'll be there."

Cuddy grinned at the thought. Why had he never understood? It was really all she ever wanted, anyway. He didn't have to follow a script and meet expectations. He never even had to behave. In fact, she preferred him not to.

"I'll try to be honest with you, even if I have to use Morse code and bad metaphors to get my point across," he said. "And I'll spend every day trying to be worthy of you."

Her eyes welled up with tears at the doubt and uncertainty that marred the hope and desire he was expressing so openly.

"I'll try to share my pain…and your pain…and…" House looked down, searching for the right words.

Cuddy knew how difficult this was for him. "Words don't matter," he'd told her once. But now it seemed he needed to say the words; he needed her to hear the words.

He took a deep, calming breath and looked into her grey-blue eyes.

"I promise to love and care for you," he said. "To be your friend and your lover…no matter what life throws at us. I promise I'll…honor and cherish you…in good times and bad…in sickness and in health…"

Cuddy's eye grew wide with shock.

"I'll always love you," he whispered. "And I won't let you go."

The air around them swelled in silence as Cuddy stared up at him. House swallowed nervously, afraid he'd said too much. He'd spoken too soon. Asked for more than she wanted to give.

"Did you just say wedding vows?"

House nodded. "I think so."

"But you don't believe in marriage. You think the only reason marriage was created was so homo-erectus females could be protected from predators while they were breast feeding," she reminded him of a sentiment he'd shared too often. "And only moron's get married now."

House shook his head. "I don't believe in marriage as we know it," he said. "People get married now to justify baseless ideologies of faithfulness and monogamy, and to increase or reinforce their social standing through vulgar displays of wealth during ceremonies that will ultimately destroy the romantic delusions that brought them to the alter in the first place. In the beginning it wasn't about public displays and empty words. It was a covenant between two people. It encompassed everything they had and everything they owned…everything they were. It was the solemn promise of a shared identity and purpose, and it was private. An oath of blood that could never be broken."

Cuddy was afraid to believe what she thought he was saying.

House found her silence unbearable. "I don't believe in marriage, but I believe in my feelings for you," he murmured. "Besides, you already have everything I am."

She became aware of the tears rolling down her cheek when he reached toward her and wiped the drops from her cheek with his thumb.

"You really are the most beautiful man," she breathed.

"I'm pathetic."

She caressed his jaw.

"You're sexy."

"You want me," he grinned.

"Always."

Cuddy pulled him into her arms and kissed him. He immediately responded, his tongue delving into her mouth to taste and explore.

"I need a bit more recovery time," he said, moving his lips along her cheek.

Cuddy hugged him.

"I'm still a control freak," she muttered.

"You want to tie me up?"

He felt her smile against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around her, and he ran his fingers in the long hair hanging down her back.

"Not tonight," she chuckled. "But there will be times I'll want to…and leave you hanging out to dry."

House heard her tone grow serious and leaned back to look at her.

"I haven't changed either, House."

He frowned. "I don't want you to change."

"But you need it to be different."

He looked like he'd been slapped. She could see the ache of rejection in his eyes as he tried to pull away from her.

"No." She wouldn't let him step back. Her hands cupped his cheeks, demanding he look at her. "Listen to me."

Bright blue eyes stared defiantly at her, and she gave him a tender, patient smile.

"I'm not rejecting you, House. And this is not just one night," she said. "But if we're going to make this work there's something you need to know."

Her hands dropped lower onto his neck. He could feel her fingers caress him, her thumbs trace the lines of his throat. Her eyes were bright and happy as she looked at him, and he dared for just a second to hope.

"You're the love of my life," she finally said. "I know you don't believe that, and I don't expect you to trust me after the way I made you feel."

"Cuddy…"

She pressed her fingers against his lips to silence him.

"I'm going to do better this time," she told him. "I'm going to show you how much I love you and how proud I am of you and how much I want you in my life. I'm going to choose you. Every day. And in time, I hope you will believe me."

Cuddy took his right hand in hers and held it to her chest.

"I promise when I feel like running, I will run to you," she said.

House grimaced. "I don't expect you to…"

"I promise I will be patient when you interrupt me, and ignore what I have to say, and disregard my feelings and act like an insufferable ass."

"Nice."

Her laugh was light and airy, but when she continued, her voice was soft and steady.

"I promise to love, honor and respect you," she said. "To be a loyal, unwavering support, and a safe place for you when everything seems to be crashing down around you and inside you…And I promise to cherish you and everything you are and everything you give to me…with all my heart, mind, soul and body…for as long as we both live."

House leaned down and placed his forehead against hers. ""You don't have to do this," he sighed.

"Argh!" She shook him. "Do I have to get a knife and make this commitment in blood?"

Cuddy looked at him with a certainty he'd never seen from her.

"I love you," she said. "I'm not going anywhere. And I'm not letting you go anywhere either. Whatever happens in court, or in our future, I'm here. You're stuck with me…This is not a test. This is forever and you're just going to have to learn to deal with it."

He was examining her with the same focus and intensity he gave symptoms on a whiteboard during a difficult differential. She stared back at him, determined and unwavering.

Cuddy felt a sense of relief when he gave her a sexy grin. "You promise to cherish my body, huh?"

"You think you're up for it?" she teased.

He took her hand and pulled her with him down the hall toward her bedroom.

"Let's start in the shower."

"You want me to wash your back?"

He stopped so quickly she ran into him.

"Is there something else you'd like to cherish right now, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy cupped his balls, giving them a light squeeze before running her hand along his dick.

"Want to consummate this covenant?" she asked.

House didn't answer, but they spent the rest of the night doing just that.


	7. Chapter 6 - Inconclusive Results

**Finding A Cure - Chapter 6: Inconclusive Results**

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Stacy slammed her briefcase down on the conference table and swiftly swung around to face House as he slipped through the door behind her.

"Me? You should be asking about them. One of them obviously has Anankastic Personality Disorder," House said. "The other probably…"

"Oh, shut up," Stacy snapped. "The only one with a personality disorder around here is you."

House rolled his eyes and paced to the corner of the room to allow space for the others to enter behind him.

"You mean YOU," he pointed to Stacy. "You're the one who thinks a testimony from a would-be faith healer, and MY MOTHER is a good defense."

Darryl Nolan pulled out one of the guest chairs and gestured for Mrs. House to sit. He was consciously relaxed and projecting only a casual interest in the conversation, but he was mentally taking notes of not only the interaction, but the body language between the two. Especially House.

"They aren't the entire defense, you idiot!" Stacy had pulled her phone out of her pocket while he was speaking and was now dialing a number. "They are here to help the defense, not that anything can help after you insulted the attorney and verbally obliterated the judge. You are…"

She spoke into the phone. "We need you," she said and abruptly hung up the phone, tossing it on the table in front of her. She braced a hand on the back of a chair and the other on her hip as she glared at House indignantly. "Dammit, Greg! I had already done the work," she fumed. "This was supposed to be a simple settlement confirmation hearing, but you've managed to turn it into a trial."

"You mean a witch trial," he said. "Maybe you can say I'm possessed. Then you could call in a priest to perform an exorcism. That sort of dramatic lawyering would work well with you."

"You can't keep your mouth shut for twenty minutes and somehow it's my skill as a lawyer that's the problem?"

Nolan only peripherally noted Mrs. House was calmly retrieving a mint from her purse - seemingly unmoved by the argument taking place before her - as he watched Stacy step toward House, eyes full of fire and fury. There was obviously a lot of history between them, a familiarity and comfort that allowed them to step beyond standard rules of social propriety. He knew of their previous relationship. He knew a lot of their history from the rather broken, winding and factual telling House had given during their therapy sessions. It had taken a lot of time and patience, nudging and bargaining - sometimes even threatening - to get House to finally share how he'd felt at the time of the infarction and how he felt now. The betrayal even more than the physical loss had set House on a dark path he'd never been able to detour off. Seeing them together, even under these circumstances, was quite revealing.

"This entire process is a joke."

"This process is the law," she snapped. "The law that will decide if you go back to jail or go free. You can't put your arrogance aside for a few minutes..."

"Arrogance? It's not my arrogance that…"

"You may know everything, Gregory," his mother spoke up. "But your ability to use that knowledge for your own good has always been lacking. You need to listen to Stacy."

House rolled his eyes and began to pace. Nolan recognized the restless, anxious energy that kept him moving.

"Great," House muttered. "Take her side."

"I'm always on your side," she calmly reminded him. "And so is she."

"You're the only one not on your side," Stacy pointed out. "You think because the process is flawed you can just say and do whatever you want?"

"It's my life. I deserve to have a say."

"But you didn't say anything about you," she was almost yelling at this point. "You were lecturing them on the law. You were belittling them for the process."

"They were…"

"It doesn't matter that the process is flawed. It doesn't matter that what they say isn't logical or what they do lacks reason. It doesn't matter that the judge and the district attorney are complete morons. You can point out every issue and every flaw, but it doesn't matter. This is the law, and you fighting it only hurts you. Your sarcasm doesn't fix the problems in the law. It only hurts you. It sabotages you…"

Her voice trailed off and House turned to look at her, frowning.

Stacy seemed to examine every inch of him before her eyes lowered into squints.

"What?"

Nolan heard the shift in his voice, and watched as House became cautious. The nervous posture shifted to defensive. Nolan looked at Stacy curiously.

She didn't answer. Her eyes continued to examine House. You could almost see her sorting through information in her mind, working through whatever had suddenly dawned on her and interrupted her tirade. He could imagine there were many moments like this in their relationship. House would need a smart, strong woman who could not only fight back, but read him.

"You son-of-a bitch."

House stepped back, putting distance between them even as she stepped toward him.

"I told you not to see her."

"What?"

"You slept with Cuddy."

"I didn't…"

"Don't bother lying," she snapped. "I know you. I know how you look after you've gotten laid and I know how your brain twists and turns every good moment into a cataclysmic disaster in the making. You. Slept. With. Cuddy."

"I didn't sleep…"

Stacy popped him on the chest once…twice… "This is not funny!" A third pop to the chest and House stepped away from her again, attempting to dodge her assault.

"I should have guessed right away when you came in singing this morning," she said. "I could have duct taped your mouth before you caused so much damage."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" House deflected. "That's always been a fantasy of yours. To tie me up and…"

"SHUT UP!" She yelled. "This is serious. I told you not to see her for a reason."

Stacy ran her hands down her face in frustration before pushing them through her hair and glaring up at House.

"I knew you'd do just this," she said. "Feel all self-satisfied and puffed up, strutting around like you'd just conquered the world. But then you'd realize you were feeling happy, and we know that's completely unacceptable. You'd remember you shouldn't feel so full of hope, because that's a complete disaster…Then you'd think of all the things that could go wrong and how you don't deserve anything good, and then everything from that minute on would be self-sabotaging."

Stacy growled in frustration. "You are your own worst enemy," she continued. "And now you've compromised any testimony Lisa could give. And why? Because you couldn't keep it in your pants another day?"

"I needed to talk to her," House mumbled. His expression held a shadow of doubt and uncertainty that hadn't been present before.

"You had sex with her!"

"Oh, relax. No one saw us."

All eyes turned to the admonishing voice coming from the door, watching as the woman enter the room and closed the door behind her.

"No one would even know if you weren't screaming about it," she said. "I'm sure the people in the building across the street heard you."

So this was Lisa Cuddy, Nolan thought.

She was more petite than he'd imagined, but she possessed an air of strength and authority that commanded attention. She was dressed in standard business attire, a suit with a skirt and matching jacket. It was buttoned at the front with a camisole or satin-like blouse beneath, and the skirt was a basic pencil skirt cut just above the knees, yet the way the outfit molded her curves distracted from the professional cut. She was downright alluring.

"What were you thinking?" Stacy demanded. "I expected him to be careless. He's a man. And an idiot. But you? I thought I could count on you."

"This is me," Cuddy responded and then gestured to House. "And this is House." She didn't elaborate. Apparently that explained everything. Nolan fought back a grin.

Lisa Cuddy was a force. In just these few seconds of seeing her, he could understand why House would be enamored. As it was, Nolan was captivated.

"What happened?" she asked as she stepped between House and Stacy.

Nolan noted there was no personal space between them. She stood close as she flipped her long hair off her shoulder and stared up at him. He looked at her with such open vulnerability and tenderness, such fear and raw emotion that watching them felt like an intrusion. It was as if everything around them faded. He was reminded of the effect in movies where they went from a birds-eye, omnipotent view to a close-up in a matter of seconds. They were solely focused on each other. No one else existed.

Stacy had turned away in frustration and hadn't noticed. Or perhaps she intentionally ignored it. Nolan sensed there were still lingering emotional ties to House that Stacy had not quite broken over the years.

"What do you think?" she snapped. "He verbally eviscerated the judge."

Cuddy tilted her head to the side and waited for House to respond. There was something dynamic in the way his blue eyes met her grey, in the unwavering connection, as if an entire conversation was happening between them without any words being spoken.

"So you've decided just to go back to jail," she finally asked.

Nolan noted the childlike quality that came over him as he slumped at her words, his head slightly bowed. He looked at her with hooded eyes, expecting her disappointment.

Cuddy paused a beat before responding: "Well, I guess now we can fulfill that conjugal visit fantasy."

House looked at her with eyes saturated in sadness and defeat, but he leaned toward her, increasing the intimacy and fortifying that bubble that seemed to surround them.

"How did you know I had that fantasy?" he asked.

"Who said I was talking about your fantasy?"

House gave her a slight grin, but then sighed in frustration.

"My life is in the hands of two morons."

Cuddy scowled. "You have one of the most brilliant minds in the world and you couldn't figure out how to use the morons for your own benefit? You're a master at this, House. You know how to win these games."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm already screwing this up," he whispered.

Nolan felt his heart constrict at the despair in his voice, the hopelessness he openly revealed. The walls were down. The fortification and façade that Nolan was accustomed to seeing in House had virtually disappeared when their eyes locked. It was absolutely mesmerizing, and even more, their interaction was insightful. There was a complex set of emotional circuitry between them: inductors that harnessed their individual energies, depolarizing and transmitting it through resistors and capacitors, harnessing the power in an invisible reactor. The energy had a pulse. It was biding and focused. He could almost feel the heat radiating between them as it centered and transformed for a single purpose. It was easy to see how important it would be to maintain a strict balance with a power that held so much potential. As quickly as the energy could be channeled and contained, one error in calculation, one faulty connection or shift in the wiring could result in a nuclear reaction.

Cuddy reached up to caress his jaw. "You shaved," she tenderly observed.

"I thought it would make me look more respectable," he said.

The affection she felt for him was evident when she answered: "But then you spoke."

He nodded. "Think they'd believe I have Turrets?"

Cuddy her head with a mixture of amusement and frustration, but then took the hand that wasn't gripping his cane and entwined their fingers.

"So what do we need to do?" Cuddy asked. Her eyes were still on House, but it was Stacy who answered.

"There's nothing we can do, but hope for the best."

Cuddy swung around to face her, breaking was Nolan was beginning to feel was like the fourth wall in theatre. "That is not an acceptable answer."

Her grey eyes were full of fire and she seemed to grow several inches as she reared her shoulders. She was more than protective. She was passionate and determined.

"I've been before enough boards and committees who were ready to hang House to know hope has nothing to do with it," she said. "All they see right now is that he's an ass. It's up to you to make them see beyond that, to see him and his process."

"This isn't about medicine," Stacy argued. "I can't just point to the lives he saves and suggest clinic duty. This trial is completely about his character, and he just made it really difficult to prove he has any."

Stacy's phone rang and she turned to answer it. Nolan took the opportunity to introduce himself to the legendary Lisa Cuddy.

"I'm Dr. Darryl Nolan." He watched as recognition shown on her face.

"Dr. Nolan," she said, extending her hand in greeting. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You don't have to lie," House muttered. With a flick of the head, she frowned at House before turning back to Nolan with a friendly smile.

"Thank you for helping us," she said. "We're very grateful."

Nolan chuckled. "I'm not sure Greg agrees," he returned. "But thank you."

She had a warm smile and a friendly way about her that made it easy to engage. He noticed how seamlessly she shifted from a powerful presence to a comfortable comrade, drawing people near with her beauty and exuberance then charming them with her ready smile and fixed interest. Greg had called her an enchantress. It was an apt description.

"I must admit," Nolan searched her eyes as he continued. "I regret not meeting you before now."

He imagined few people noticed that her ease was choreographed. It was a cloak to hide a very guarded nature. Nolan could sense the caution and distrust that lurked beneath the surface. He'd been trained to see the fear and loneliness obscured behind the mask.

"I think if I'd met you from the start, things could have turned out quite different with Greg," he said. "I may not have been reduced to a faith healer in his eyes."

Cuddy turned to look at House, bewildered. "You didn't tell him about me?"

"Of course I did."

Nolan carefully watched House. "You just left out the part about being in love with her."

Cuddy frowned; House shifted nervously.

"You didn't think the hallucination was an indicator of…"

"He didn't know about it," House interrupted her.

Cuddy stared at him, clearly astonished. "You're kidding."

"I take it there was more to his hallucinations than Wilson's deceased girlfriend," Nolan continued to lead the conversation, curious at what would be revealed.

Cuddy ignored him and focused on House. "What the hell did you talk about?"

"You know, the usual Freudian schtick," House answered with impertinence. "Daddy issues, my ex leaving me handicapped, my inability to trust..."

"You didn't think it was relevant?"

Now Nolan was intrigued. What had House been hiding?

"I was there to detox," House insisted.

"You stayed well past the detox."

"Because HE made me."

"So you were just going through the motions?" Now she was riled. "Were you just playing a game? You had some kind of strategy to…"

"I didn't need to tell him," House said. "I already knew the meaning of it all. I was hallucinating, not brain dead."

She didn't look like she believed him. House rolled his eyes, and began listing off his reasons. "I trusted you. I wanted you to save me. I needed a chance to be with you."

"To have sex with me."

"No…Yes…" House sighed in frustration. "It was more than sex. I wanted a relationship. Why do you think I asked if we should move in together?"

Cuddy seemed to be remembering what had happened between them.

"If you felt that way, why didn't you say anything?"

"You were with Lucas."

"Before that," she said. "You admitted to the hallucination, but acted like it didn't matter, that nothing had changed."

"I was trying to get my life back!" House snapped. "What did you expect, Cuddy? I was trying to figure out how to be me without Vicodin. How to practice medicine when I'm in pain. How to trust the people in my life again. By the time I was ready to talk with you about it, you were with Lucas and avoiding me like the plague. Nothing my shrink could say was going to change that, so why bother?"

They had entered into that bubble again, and Nolan hesitated to interrupt. But he needed to. This was an opportunity he might not have again.

"Aren't you overlooking something?" It was like a hand slipped through the elevator doors preventing them from closing.

A frustrated House tossed him a questioning glance.

"Maybe there was something YOU could have said," he explained. "Maybe if you'd given me the whole story, I could have helped you navigate through the emotions you were feeling and find the words that would have made a difference."

"Words don't matter," House shrugged off the idea. "Besides, there was nothing I could say, believe me. I tried."

It wasn't the first time Nolan had heard House reference this philosophy. He had always been more about action: solving the puzzle, fixing the problem, treating the disease. He'd never fully embraced the idea that words had a place in the action, that they might even be necessary. Even when he'd finally accepted the words "I'm sorry" made a difference, he still believed they required some kind of action to give them weight.

"I wonder if Dr. Cuddy felt that way," Nolan said.

House frowned, and looked at Cuddy. She was looking at Nolan, wide-eyed with surprise.

"Would you mind answering that?"

Cuddy cleared her throat and crossed her arms at her chest. "Answer what?"

"This is ridiculous," House interrupted. "Nothing that happened will…"

"Was there anything Greg could have said to you when he got back from Mayfield that may have changed the course of events between you?" Nolan didn't allow House to distract or redirect.

Cuddy nervously looked down at her shoes, but answered: "Yes."

Now it was House who was surprised. More than that. He was shocked.

"What did you want to hear?" Nolan encouraged her to continue.

"What?" She asked. "Are you my shrink now? Or just trying your hand at couples therapy?"

Nolan smiled patiently. She was as adept at deflection as House, but he wouldn't be swayed. He just waited. And watched.

House studied her. He wasn't just looking for clues or answers, he was remembering. Nolan couldn't get over the ballast of history that underpinned their every interaction.

"What did you want to hear?" House asked the question again, his voice throaty and raw.

Cuddy dropped her hands to her side and looked up at him.

"That I was right."

House paled a bit and Nolan thought he saw a slight trembling in the hand that tightly gripped his cane.

"You'll have to finish this little therapy session later," Stacy interrupted. "The judge wants to see us in his chambers."

"Is that a bad sign?" Mrs. House asked.

"I don't know," Stacy answered and turned to Nolan. "I may need you."

"I'll be here," he readily responded.

* * *

Nolan watched as Cuddy paced the floor, her hands fidgeting with her phone in much the same way House did his cane. He tapped his cane on the floor, tossed it from hand-to-hand and sometimes even spun it; she tapped her phone against her palm, tossed it from hand-to-hand, and spun it between the fingers of her two hands. Their restless energy was very similar, but right now it was more than that. She was tense and nervous, and in full problem solving mode. He could tell she was anticipating all possible outcomes of this meeting and the corresponding actions that may be required.

"When Gregory was in the third grade, the school called me because he'd slipped into the mechanical room the janitors used to store their equipment and taken apart the buffer."

Both Nolan and Cuddy turned to look at Blythe House. "The principal wanted to suspend him, but I didn't think that was a good punishment for my son. He was only eight years old. What good would be gained from him having three days off from school?"

"He took apart a buffer? At eight years old?"

Cuddy wasn't as surprised. She smiled at Blythe, her eyes sparkling with what seemed to be a memory.

"I told the principal it wasn't a just punishment," Blythe continued. "My son was bored in class. They knew that. I was meeting with the teacher once a month because he would finish his work early and get into trouble. He couldn't sit still, or he was talking too much, or he was throwing pencils at the ceiling. It had only been a week earlier he'd hit the boy in front of him with a stapler because he was trying to learn to learn to juggle using the teacher's office supplies."

Nolan found himself chuckling along with the ladies as he recognized some of those antics still present in the adult House.

"The principal didn't want to hear it, but it was a proven fact," she continue her story. "He finished his assignments in half the time other students required and he would find things to keep him busy. It was not his fault they didn't create additional assignments for him to keep him busy. It wasn't his fault their curriculum didn't challenge him. It also wasn't his fault when they didn't keep an eye on him, any more than it was his fault they left the mechanical room unlocked, which could clearly be a danger for children."

She spoke with pride and tenderness. She obviously adored her son.

"How did he even know how to do something like that at eight years old?" Nolan asked.

"It was a phase," Blythe said. "It started with model cars and airplanes during the summer, but quickly progressed to taking apart and putting back together small appliances."

"Apparently he was ready to move onto bigger and better things," Nolan said.

"Oh, he was," Blyth laughed. "And they should have anticipated it. He was always precocious, and never really hid it when he was about to become mischievous. That grin of his would always give him away."

"And his eyes," Cuddy added.

"His eyes are very telling," Blythe agreed. There was a rapport between the two ladies, formed by a shared understanding and love for the man they referenced. Nolan had the sense this story was a kind of acknowledgement and validation of this connection, not the simple reminiscing of a proud mother.

"Once I reminded the principal of their failure to provide adequate educational challenges for a boy of his intelligence, as well as their negligence on the security front, the principal was more than willing to provide a more reasonable and effective punishment."

"Which was?"

"He had to put the buffer back together," Cuddy said.

"And it worked better than ever."

"Didn't they also have him repair the microfiche in the library and the crank on the ditto machine?" Cuddy asked.

Blythe laughed. "Yes, indeed. Then they advanced him to the fourth grade and put him in advanced classes in science and maths so he wouldn't be so bored."

Nolan saw the way their eyes sparkled, and watched as Cuddy sat down at the table across from Blythe. Apparently talking about House had a calming effect. She'd placed her phone on the table and now rested her elbow on the table, her chin in her right hand.

"His father was transferred to Egypt the following school year, and they placed him in classes based on his testing. It actually worked out better for him."

"That's when his obsession with mummies started."

"Archaeology," she corrected with a laugh. Obviously House had made the distinction quite often. "There was a dig near the base. He used to spend time there after school."

"I'm sure it was better than any day care or after school program you could have signed him up for."

"May I ask you a question, Dr. Cuddy?" Nolan interrupted.

"You can call me Lisa," she said. "I'm pretty sure we're way past formalities at this point. And of course."

Nolan gave a slight nod before asking: "When did House tell you this story?"

Blythe leaned forward as if she were interested in the answer as well.

"Umm," Cuddy glanced at the ceiling as she took a second to think. "Gosh, years ago. Sometime in college, I think. Why?"

"The two of you were close then?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Why?" he asked.

She shifted in her chair, turning her body away from him. Defensive? Guarded? Nolan wasn't sure.

"I was just an undergrad," she answered. "He was in med school already. We didn't really share the same circles."

Nolan nodded, but tilted his head curiously. "And yet he shared a rather detailed story of his childhood."

Cuddy picked up her phone again and began turning it on the table. Nolan fought back a smile as she began fidgeting.

"We met a few times," she said. "It must have been part of the conversation at the time."

"Small talk," Nolan offered.

Cuddy released a smoky laugh. "House doesn't do small talk."

"He doesn't share childhood memories with people he doesn't know and trust, either."

She stilled and frowned at him. "I'm not sure what you are getting at," she tensely responded.

"Is there something to get at?"

There was a tense pause before Blythe interjected. "You know my son. Very well, I might add."

Cuddy looked at Blythe then, examining her expression and considering her words. Nolan was interested in their interaction. He'd learned from Blythe the two women had met many times over the years, but ironically never when they were actually in a relationship. He was very intrigued by the women who knew House best and loved him so deeply.

"You know when to push and when to back off," Blythe looked at Cuddy with fondness and respect. "You know when to let him sleep in the bed he's made and when he will punish himself beyond the sentence of any crime he could commit. What you told Stacy was right. Focusing on how the system failed doesn't just provide a reason for his behavior, it provides a shared responsibility for what's happened. That was the point of my story."

"Don't you think some people might argue he has never had to take responsibility for his actions," Nolan asked in a calm, clinical tone, challenging both her words and the ideology. "They might see the point of your story as historical proof that he has always had people to talk him out of trouble. Which is why he learned to manipulate his way out of it."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Bullshit."

Both ladies responded vehemently.

"Gregory needs an environment where he can flourish," Blythe argued. "If he doesn't have that, he is going to rebel."

"Part of being an adult is learning you can't always get your way," Nolan made the obvious counterpoint. "You won't always have the right environment, or be surrounded by the best people, but you still have to function."

"Gregory knows you can't always get what you want," she huffed.

He didn't respond, which seemed to make Blythe uncomfortable and a bit defensive.

"If you try some time...you get what you need," Cuddy mumbled. She appeared to be lost in a distant memory.

"The Rolling Stones," he identified the reference, even though he didn't understand it in this context.

She gave him slight smile, but didn't respond. Instead, she answered his previous challenge.

"It's not about the right environment or the best people," she said. "It's about fluidity and adaptability. Some people require very little. They color in the lines and follow all the rules. They do their part; they maintain the status quo, and everything is business as usual. It's a good thing. But some people can't be restrained or boxed in. They need more creative outlets and open boundaries. These are the inventors and artists, the discoverers. These are the minds that take us to a new level and help us grow as a society. These are the minds that see possibility and are willing to take risks to achieve it. Instead of penalizing them and casting them out as lepers, shouldn't we be open to a little more ingenuity in how we deal with them? Don't we owe it to ourselves to adjust the borders a bit?"

"Gregory needs loose boundaries," Blythe added. "But he needs a safety net…and a bark collar."

Cuddy laughed at that.

"Perhaps," Nolan agreed. "I do hear what you both are saying. It's not uncommon to adjust environments to the need. ADA laws and HR provisions are built on just this idea. Quite often, changes to the environment is part of self-management in my field. However, my question to you both is…how do you know when the boundaries have been pushed so far out they are no longer safe for House? Or worse, they become a risk to others?"

"I don't," Blythe answered sadly. "I've failed a lot. I tried to compensate for his father when he was young, and tried to make-up for what I'd allowed later. I didn't always balance my guilt and need for absolution with healthy boundaries, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong about what he needs."

Nolan looked at Cuddy, as if to ask her the same question.

"It's not always clear," she said. "Most of the time, things turn out for the good, but sometimes bad things happen. It's easier for me to balance the risks when it comes to medicine and patient care."

"But not when the situation involves a more personal nature?"

Cuddy sighed. "It was easier in the past."

"Before you were in a relationship."

"We've always been in a relationship. Even when we weren't."

The air was saturated with the meaning behind that. They all knew and understood. It's what Nolan was getting at when he was asking about their past. Even when they weren't in the same circles, when it was just a 'one-night-stand,' when years, or position separated them, there was an intimacy between them that could not be denied.

Just then, there was a quick knock on the door before it opened. "Excuse me," the officer said. "Dr. Nolan, the judge would like you to join them in his chambers."

He could feel the apprehension from the eyes that followed him as he nodded and left the room.

* * *

"No jail time," Stacy said as she entered the room. "He will be under psychiatric evaluation for the month, followed by probation. The details will be determined by the results of the evaluation and the recommendations of Dr. Nolan."

The color washed from Cuddy's face as Stacy explained the ruling. It was much the same reaction he'd seen from House. Nolan had noted he hadn't said a word when the judge issued the instructions, nor as they were escorted back to the conference room, but his face had gone ashen and he'd withdrawn behind an impenetrable, invisible wall. He didn't even look at Cuddy, whose eyes followed him as he moved to stare out the window. It was as if he'd completely disassociated from the situation. Nolan suspected he was sinking into a very dark place. Cuddy seemed to have the same fear.

"My God, you're as bad as him," Stacy accused. "Did you even hear what I said? He won't go to jail. This is good news."

"They're questioning his sanity," Cuddy answered, quietly. "That's not good news."

Nolan closed his eyes and breathed deeply, beginning to understand the defeated response.

"They're trying to weigh the risks," Stacy argued. "But first they need to understand them. That's all this is."

"They think he could be a risk?" Blythe asked.

"That's what they need to establish…if he is a risk to himself or others."

Given his history, it wasn't an unrealistic determination. Nolan could certainly understand why the court would make this request. But he also knew House. His mind was the one thing he believed in. Logic and reason. Facts and truth. It was devastating for him to discover his addiction had messed with his gift. To have it questioned when he was clean…

"Gregory acts out, but he's usually quite harmless," Blythe said.

"And yet he ran a car into Lisa's dining room."

Cuddy looked down, troubled by the turn of the conversation. House flinched: the only indication he was even hearing what was being said.

"Look, we all know he can be misguided and irresponsible," Stacy said. "The danger is usually to himself, but sometimes it does hurt someone else. When it does, he punishes himself beyond reason, I know. He doesn't need the court to help with that. You're singing to the choir here. But they do need to understand where he is coming from…where he's at...And, maybe this could help him in some ways. Maybe Nolan could help him learn not to cause pain based on his own pain."

She could see none of that was changing the look of dread and doom on their faces, and sat down in the chair across from Blythe.

"I'm sorry," she said, clearly frustrated and confused. "This is the best we can get right now."

Cuddy moved to stand next to House. She didn't touch him or try to comfort him. She did nothing to break through shield he'd so quickly constructed, and yet, Nolan couldn't help but notice how easily she'd stepped through it, like an apparition unburdened by walls and divisions. She took his hand and entwined their fingers, joining him in the silent battle being waged within.

"We'll get through this," she finally said.

"No, we won't."

Cuddy sighed. "Don't do this…"

"I don't want you there," he snapped. His jaw was tight and his body tense as he turned to look at her. "I don't want you to visit. I don't want you to be a part of this." It was curious to watch how he gripped her hand tighter even as his words pushed her away.

"House, nothing's changed," she said. "Everything we said last night…"

"This is my responsibility. My fight."

"For better or for worse," she reminded him, unflinching in her determination. "It's our fight."

"No."

"House…"

"I don't want you to see me there," House said. The tumultuous storm was barely contained in his eyes as he stared at her, desperate and beseeching. "I don't want you to me like that."

She was honestly confused…and hurt. He was scared and determined.

"How many times can you see me broken before that's all you see?" he asked. "How many times can we go through this before I lose you?"

Her eyes filled with unshed tears.

"You're not going to lose me," she said. "You've got to know that."

"I don't want you to visit," he was pleading with her as he unconsciously moved closer to her.

Nolan couldn't help but think the connection between them was too strong to be broken by harsh words and disagreements…or even separation. He was surprised either of them could have fears when it was so clear, so evident to everyone around them. On the other hand, it was the power behind that very connection that left them feeling unstable and insecure, left them flailing and reactive.

"You're asking a lot." She pointed out.

"I know." He pulled her to him and she stepped into his embrace.

"You're such a pain," she muttered into his chest.

He kissed the top of her head and held her close. "I know."

Stacy cleared her throat. It sounded like she felt like an intruder in the moment, as well. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but we're going to need to fill out the paperwork and get moving."

Her interruption didn't move the couple. Nolan smiled. He had learned a lot today, not just about House, but about his history and his current support system. He wasn't alone, and contrary to what he seemed to believe, he wasn't really 'broken' either. At least not in the way he seemed to fear. In fact, House seemed to have grown a great deal since his time at Mayfield. His willingness to take responsibility, to express his fears, to trust…it was all there. He wondered if she saw it. He wondered if House did.

Stacy retrieved her briefcase and headed for the door, expecting House to follow without further instruction. Nolan thought there was a certain irony in that given his proclivity for intentional rebellion. He turned to look at House, but quickly averted his eyes when he saw they'd fallen into a deep, devouring kiss.

House may try to deflect and avoid, but they were definitely going to talk about his feeling for Lisa Cuddy.

When House slipped out the door behind Stacy, Nolan asked: "May I ask you a question, Lisa?"

"Yes."

She was bravely holding back the tears.

"You two have been here before, obviously," Nolan said. "What's different this time around? Why do you think it will work this time?"

The answer wasn't what he expected.

"I am," she said. "I'm different."

* * *

AN: Song Inspiration – Brandi Carlile, The Story


	8. Chapter 7 - New Parameters

**Finding A Cure – Chapter7: New Parameters**

She was miserable. It was hard to believe her life was once filled with such vapid displays of pompous patronizing and hypocrisy. Her endocrinology practice didn't involve anywhere near the level of face-time with donors and colleagues that her role of Dean of Medicine had required. In fact, she hadn't been to a fundraising event since she'd left Princeton Plainsboro. She hadn't been obligated to suck up to donors at dinner parties and network meetings, either. The only time she was expected to attend any function at all was when it involved her department directly, like tonight.

Lisa Cuddy was receiving recognition for a paper that had recently been published in the North Atlantic Journal of Medicine involving the work she was doing on obesity and hormone interaction with the Dorsal Rephe Nucleus. It was a tremendous honor for her as a doctor. Given she'd spent so many years as an administrator - not focusing on her specialty - it was a significant moment for her. More so, the results of such acclaim would certainly benefit both her practice and the hospital, so she'd stepped into her evening dress and heels to ease back into a roll she'd mastered long ago. To an outsider, she was the perfect social butterfly working the room as only she could do. She was powerful, kind and charismatic. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and her ability to draw people into her web was truly a magical gift. She looked totally in her element: happy, confident and engaging. But, she was far from it.

Her feet hurt, her cheeks were starting to ache from the fake smiles and if one more asshole tried to cop a feel - either by accident or in a gross act of self-delusion of charm – she would most certainly snap. She was pretty sure her handbag could cause some damage if she hit in just the right spot.

House would have noticed her predicament and been ready with a distraction about now. Her smile turned genuine as she thought of it, as she thought of him.

He had never been big on attending any of the hospital events. If they involved his department, he could be coaxed - or bribed - into making an appearance, and if the party had a theme that interested him, he would actually stay for the entire evening. That was a rarity, of course. Casino themes were always a draw. He was a known gambler and would almost always walk away with large winnings. Then there was the Havana night (he loved a good cigar), Moroccan night (the only thing better than a belly dancer was a harem), and the Cabaret Parties (he would never turn down a night with scantily clad women and liquor). She'd sponsored three of those. It was when she'd planned the third, he'd realized she had a Moulin Rouge fantasy that caused her to keep returning to that theme. He'd teased her mercilessly. The night of the party when he saw her in the can-can dress, it was her turn to tease. He'd remained seated most of that evening. It was difficult to walk with a cane and a hard-on.

Working a crowd of donors had become second nature to her; she did it by rote and only remembered the dollar related details by the end of the evening. The times House attended the events were memorable. She would remember what he wore, what he drank, how his eyes followed her, how he would interrupt and disrupt and make the night an adventure. But that was years ago. Now, she was out of practice, bored and alone in the crowded room.

God she missed him.

It may have only been a few days he'd been back in her life, and only one night back in her arms, but she was irreversibly caught in his vortex again. She barely made it an hour without thinking of him, longing for him, remembering those last minutes at the courthouse.

" _You left," Rachel had said. Her eyes were big as she looked up at him, her hand holding her mother's leg as the other held a small, stuffed penguin. Cuddy saw his eyes linger on the penguin._

 _They had just left the conference room after Stacy had explained they would need to go to Processing to complete the appropriate paperwork for his transfer. Cuddy had been surprised to find Julia and her mother waiting for her in the hallway while Rachel sat playing quietly on the bench behind them._

" _Mom," Cuddy said. "What are you doing here?"_

 _Arlene didn't answer. She was too busy glaring at House. Julia, however, stepped around Arlene and immediately drew Cuddy into a quick hug. "We came to support you," she softly explained. "Did you really think we'd stay away?"_

 _That's exactly what she'd thought when she had asked them to watch Rachel while she was at the courthouse. Although they had accepted the fact House would be back in her life, she didn't think they were ready to face him. And yet here they were, staring at him, tense, taut, and ready for a show down._

" _You look like Hell," Arlene said to House._

" _I apparently just entered it," he snapped. "You planning to…"_

 _His voice trailed off as Rachel slipped between the adults and came to stand beside her Mother._

 _She had grown since he'd last seen her, of course. She'd lost most of her baby fat and was much taller. In fact, she was in the upper percentile for her age, taking after her biological father in that area. Her hair was a lighter brunette, but her brown eyes were as wide and innocent as they'd always been. She was always watching, listening, quietly curious and subtly challenging. That had fascinated House at one time. As much as he'd tried to hide it, he'd begrudgingly grown fond of her little girl. Cuddy watched them now, stunned Rachel remembered House, much less would meet his eyes with such an unwavering stare as she addressed him with clear disappointment and accusation._

 _Cuddy ran her fingers gently through her hair, preparing to intercede._

" _You left," Rachel said again, a little louder this time. "You didn't say goodbye."_

 _It seemed like the noise in the courthouse hall completely dissipated. The air crackled with tension. Arlene and Julia turned to Rachel, looking at her in concern, their stances turning protective. Stacy, Blythe and Nolan all stared at House. He had grown pale, his sadness and pain evident as his eyes darkened to a dull blue and his trembling hand gripped his cane._

 _Cuddy reached out to touch his arm, needing to bridge the gap, fill the chasm of pain she felt echoing in the silence between the two people she loved most._

 _House shook his head slightly, diverting Cuddy's intentions, as his eyes remained locked on the little girl._

" _I messed up," he said to her. His voice was throaty and hoarse. "I messed up and did some bad things."_

 _Rachel tilted her head and carefully considered his words._

" _You hurt your leg again?"_

 _House closed his eyes and Cuddy held her breath. The last time Rachel had seen House was the night he'd tried to remove tumors from his leg in the bathtub._

" _No." House shook his head. Rachel frowned._

" _I got into trouble," he explained. He seemed to understand what she was asking, what she needed to know. "Sometimes people make mistakes and then make more mistakes when they try to fix them. That's what I did. Kept making things worse for myself."_

" _You lied?"_

" _Yes."_

" _You did bad things?"_

 _House bowed his head and sighed. "Yes."_

" _Did you get punished?"_

" _Yeah, I did."_

 _Rachel nodded sagely, as if she completely understood what had happened in all its complexity._

" _Mommie says you must take your punishment, say you're sorry and try to do better next time."_

 _His eyes lightened as he looked at the child. "I've heard that, too."_

 _Rachel nodded and stepped toward House. "It's hard to do better," she said. "I feel bad for a long time and I don't do what I'm s'pose to do 'cause I'm sad." Rachel placed a hand on House's cane as she talked to him. "Mommie says it's 'cause I don't forgive myself. I let my mind keep punishing me after the punishment is over."_

 _House glanced at Cuddy and then back down at the wise child before him. "Your mommie is smart."_

" _She helps," Rachel shrugged. Not willing to give her mother too much credit. The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight grin._

" _Yes, she does."_

" _Are you still in trouble?"_

" _A little," House answered honestly._

 _Cuddy felt her chest constrict at the look of sadness and concern on her daughter's face. House saw it as well, and shifted forward in an awkward stagger._

" _Oye, ye bloody scallywag," he feigned a snarl. "I'll not walk the plank, it's just a wee stay in the poop deck."_

 _Cuddy rolled her eyes and glared at him, but Rachel giggled._

" _Yer a mangy seadog," Rachel said. "Ye'll never hornswaggle me bootie."_

 _Cuddy was struck by the wide smile stretched across his face. He looked like a proud father._

" _I should have known she picked that up from him," Arlene muttered._

 _Rachel turned defiantly and glared at Arlene. "It's funny."_

" _It's inappropriate."_

" _We're just playin' pirates," she argued._

 _They had obviously had this argument many times._

" _I'm sorry," Stacy interrupted. "But we can't wait any longer. We really need to get down to processing."_

 _Cuddy felt her stomach drop, and a sense of panic wash over her._

"Honey _," she gently said. "Say goodbye to House and go with Aunt Julia. I'll be there in a few minutes, okay?"_

 _Rachel looked up at him with those big brown eyes that could soften the hardest heart. "Will you be back?"_

" _Yes," he said. There was nothing in his tone that left room for doubt._

 _Cuddy didn't hear what was being said around her. She didn't see their expressions, see where they moved, or hear what they said, if they said anything. There was only House, and they were suddenly alone, looking into each other's eyes with the fear and longing, the sadness and yearning that had marked their relationship for so many years. The unspoken words and tangled emotions hung suspended in the air between them tethering them together and keeping them apart._

" _That was the peace penguin," he said. Of course he remembered._

" _She confiscated it when I brought it home from the office," Cuddy answered. "She carries it everywhere."_

 _She didn't miss the irony. Even the small, trivial, insignificant things seemed to take root and grow in their lives, cementing memories and binding them together in spite of loss and destruction._

 _Cuddy stepped into his embrace, leaning her head against his chest._

" _I hate this," she whispered._

" _I know."_

 _His hands had cupped her cheeks, his thumbs lifting her chin as his lips captured hers. It was a kiss like so many others they'd shared, deep and sensual, rough and intense. His lips moist and tender; his tongue penetrating and exploring. But there was so much more to this kiss than lust and longing. She could feel the sadness and distress, could taste the fear._

 _She shifted in his arms, pulling him tight against her as she sought to reassure him. Nothing had changed. He was still the man she wanted, the man she needed with every fiber of her being. No sentence from a judge could change that, just as no question anyone could ask or judgement they could pass would alter her commitment to him._

" _Can I at least write you?" she asked when his lips left hers. He was still close. She could feel his breath on her, his hands moving gently up and down her spine._

" _You want to write me?" he gave her teasing grin._

" _I want to visit," she answered. He tensed, and she quickly moved to soothe him, her hands sliding along his shoulders and biceps. "Pouring out my heart in letters will have to do."_

 _House leaned back, giving her an intriguing grin. "Are we talking love letters or fantasies?"_

 _Her eyes narrowed in a stern glare, but her lips were turned in a seductive grin. "Is there a difference?"_

"Dr. Cuddy," a voice called form behind her. "They're ready for you."

She nodded and followed the young woman. They had prepped her earlier, explaining she would be introduced and would need to say a few words to the crowd of benefactors. Thankfully, they weren't expecting a speech of any kind. She was not up to putting on that kind of show. She wasn't up for the attention at all, really.

Cuddy could feel eyes following her as she weaved through the crowd. It was a kind of unconscious awareness. A silent recognition. An experience she'd become accustomed to over the years. Curious glances, predatory leers, jealous glares, respectful stares. They had become a natural part of her environment, like the lights or the air conditioning. Like a spark of electricity.

Her steps faltered at the thought and turned to look around the room. Something had changed. There was a sudden weight in the air. A pulse. A resonance in the quiet that surrounded her. The band was playing, the waiters were serving, the bartender was pouring drinks, the guests were dancing and talking and moving about the room. It was all muted and muffled. The hairs on her arms raised and a shiver ran down her spine.

It was as if he was there. She could feel him. His unabashed, devouring stare. His consuming presence. The concentrated current that pulsed between them. It was always there. But since her visit with Nolan, she'd felt it even more.

" _Is he okay?"_

 _When she'd found Nolan waiting outside her office, she'd felt a moment of panic. Although she'd learned the doctor had not checked House into Mayfield, she still found herself worrying about him. He was not only being evaluated as the courts demanded, but he was living and working in a rehab center for at risk young adults. Nolan felt he had a lot to offer – with his acerbic, rebellious nature and the harsh consequences of his choices - as a type of sponsor and advisor for the kids. He could work through some of his issues and impress the courts while he fulfilled the judge's requirement. House had been ready to argue, but when given a choice between Mayfield and the half-way house, the choice was clear._

" _He's fine," Nolan had quickly assured her. "I was out this way for a meeting and wanted to stop by and give you this."_

 _He'd handed her a package addressed to her. Cuddy recognized the handwriting immediately._

" _He wanted me to mail it, but since I was out this way, I thought I'd save the time and stamps."_

 _She hurriedly opened the sealed manila envelope to find a tattered, hard-cover journal. Nolan smiled at her enthusiasm. She was thrilled, and she couldn't hide it._

" _It's the first time you've heard from him?" Nolan asked as he sat in the guest chair across from her desk. Cuddy nodded, but she suspected it was a rhetorical question._

 _She'd been writing House a letter every night since they'd separated at the courthouse. It had been easy to make it part of her nightly routine. After Rachel was put to bed, she would write, and then she would mail it from her office the next day. She knew it would take a couple of days before he got the first letter, but then he would receive one daily, barring any post office mishaps. She had hoped that would please him, encourage and reassure him in some way. She had hoped it would make him feel close to her in spite of the distance and the circumstances that separated them. But day after day slipped by, and she'd never received a letter._

 _It had bothered her. She wouldn't deny that. She had felt the isolation and loneliness more acutely every passing day. But she was determined not to give up, to consider what he must be going through and not make it all about her. She had told him as much. She would write about her fears and anxiety, the stresses of her days, the precious moments with Rachel. She would share her memories and regrets; she would tell him how she missed him and needed him._

 _She would also ask questions. Lots of questions. She could picture him rolling his eyes as he read them, some generic, some pointed, but there were some things she imagined he would read with intense interest. The more she wrote, the more she realized what a great outlet it could be for them. She'd found herself doing exactly what she'd told him: pouring her heart out on the page. The letters were hardly works of art; they were clear stream of conscious, messy and without form. But they were real, heartfelt and uncensored…and as she'd entered the second week, the letters had become more risqué. She could envision his response._

" _He's been writing in it every day since your first letter," Nolan said, and Cuddy realized she must look like a school girl, holding the journal to her chest with a shameless grin on her face. "I had suggested a therapy journal, but he wasn't too keen on that."_

 _Cuddy smiled. "No, I imagine he wouldn't be."_

" _He said if his thoughts and feelings were going to be documented, it would be for your eyes only."_

 _Her stomach developed butterflies at the thought._

" _Apparently your blackmail has an advantage," he teased. Nolan looked at her pointedly and raised his hands to create air quotes as he continued: "And by advantage I mean…"_

" _Ugh," she groaned and blushed, but she was laughing as she told him. "Don't say it."_

Cuddy closed her eyes as she thought of the hours she'd spent devouring his words. There was so much content. She could have never imagined. It was as if he was trying to say all of the things he'd wanted to say over the years, articulate all of the feeling he'd denied and rejected, express his regret at the many lost opportunities. And he answered her questions. Honestly. With the sarcasm and humor, but in truth. The journal had been a surprise, but the raw honesty and openness was the real gift.

He was quite the story teller. It was one of the reasons he was such a good teacher, though he had only begrudgingly stood in front of a class over the years. He knew how to weave a story into curriculum content and engage the audience in a way that would not only provide understanding of the medicine, but clear, varied applications in real world scenarios. The student Teacher Evaluations she received after his classes always rated him higher than any other doctor or professor at PPTH, much to the board's dismay.

He was also a romantic at heart. It wasn't a secret to those who really knew him. He believed in the virtue of love. In spite of all the pain and cynicism, beneath the bitterness and sarcasm was the heart of a noble knight. His expressions of affection and loyalty – though unorthodox and well camouflaged – were a dead giveaway, even more than the large acts. Those would leave you breathless, but were often a contraposition or apology to offset his asshood. It was the smaller acts, the unexpected vulnerability, the incidental emotional candor that set the butterflies and fantasies. If she'd ever questioned his love, doubted his need, or felt ambivalent at the layered depths of his desire, he'd removed all uncertainty and insecurity. She'd dissected, analyzed and memorized every page of that journal. Now, whenever she felt the darkness surround her, the loneliness shroud her in sadness and pain, she would bring his words to mind and feel them in her heart, a healing balm and touch-point of faith.

Cuddy stepped onto the stage as the host of the evening introduced her.

"Thank you," she spoke into the microphone. The lights to the auditorium were raised slightly so she could recognize the faces of colleagues, board members and benefactors. "Thank you all for being here this evening. It is such an honor to…"

She felt herself slipping into character as easy as she had in the past. It was natural for her to talk about the work they had been doing in her practice, to compare and contrast their findings with other known endocrinology studies, to explain the breakthrough. It had been a welcome distraction for her, helping her survive the past couple of years when he was missing from her life.

Her eyes continued to scan the crowd as she spoke until they reached the far corner of the room where a man leaned casually against the bar. Even from a distance, she could see his crystal blue eyes. Mischievous eyes. Messy hair. A face rough with scruff. He wore a tux. And dress shoes. And carried a black cane. Cuddy faltered mid-thought when he raised the glass he held in a silent salute.

Her heart began to race. Her face became flushed. She could hear the whispers in the crowd and the nervous movements of the man sharing the stage with her.

Cuddy looked down, taking a deep breath to compose herself, to remember where she was and what she was saying. As she began speaking again, immediately falling back into rhythm, she glanced back to the bar. He was not there.

Had he ever been there? Was she conjuring his image? Was her mind responding to earlier thoughts and memories? It was disorienting, and frightening, and only a hint of what he must have felt when he was hallucinating. How did he do it? How would she do it?

She quickly began to bring her comments to a close, thanking the audience for their continued support and directing them back to the entertainment for the evening. But she was in an out-of-body experience. Doing all of the things she was supposed to do – smiling, laughing, responding to vapid conversations - but all the while existing in a place in her mind where his eyes locked on her, where he grinned and teased and touched. Where she was in his arms.

God, she was a mess.

She needed to get out of there. She needed to get home, strip out of her clothes and crawl into bed and with his journal. The handwriting on those pages were the only thing keeping her sane.

* * *

She leaned against the door, her body lax and lethargic as she stared blankly into the darkness. It had been a long night. At least it felt like it. She'd actually skipped out of the celebration shortly after she'd spoken to crowd. She'd done her duty. All responsibilities had been met, so she didn't feel the need to linger. Especially since her heart and mind were somewhere else.

She pushed away from her prop and turned to secure the lock.

"You are so beautiful."

Cuddy gasped, whirling around to face him.

"Of course, you've always known how to work it for maximum benefit."

He was leaning against the door frame between the dining room and kitchen, looking just as she'd seen him earlier at the benefit. Now, his bow tie hung loose, the knot removed and the buttons of the shirt beneath undone to expose his neck and a hint of chest.

"You were there," she whispered. She hadn't imagined it.

"The donations are sure to be big league," he said. "Men tend to add a few zeroes when they've got a hard-on."

"I forgot how quickly you could ruin a compliment," she answered sarcastically.

"I forgot how a backless dress could accent your ass."

Cuddy smirked. "No, you didn't."

He took a step toward her and answered. "No, I didn't."

She was in his arms in a second. Their lips met, parted, meshed with the passionate yearning of not just the weeks apart, but the years that brought them to this point. His hands ran along the open seams of her dress, up and through the curls hanging loose along her back and down to the dip of her lower spine. Her fingers ran through the hair at the nape of his neck, along his shoulders and back up his jaw. Searching. Remembering. Rediscovering.

"It's really you," she sighed.

"If you kissed me like that with doubts, I can't wait for what will happen now that you are sure."

She released a smoky laugh and nestled into his shoulder. He smelled so good; he felt even better.

"What happened to the hearing?" She asked. "Stacy said it was scheduled for Monday."

"She lied." Cuddy leaned back to look at him curiously, and he stepped away from her to reach back toward the table. "I managed to get my hands on this."

He was holding up in front of her a copy of the medical journal containing her article.

"Thank God I still have mad investigative skills," he said. "After seeing this centerfold, I had to track her down. She's totally hot."

"And here I thought you subscribed for the articles."

"Why read about hormones when you can activate them?"

"Lucky for you, now you can do both."

"My shower time has improved exponentially."

Cuddy chuckled and smiled warmly at him. House tossed the journal back down on the table and pulled her back into his arms.

"I read it," he said, his expression turning serious. "You did good…really good."

Cuddy felt her stomach flutter and her knees grow weak. This was high praise from House. She'd yearned for his respect as much as she'd craved his love. Now, he was looking at her with such pride and admiration, she felt her stomach flip and her knees grow weak.

She'd caught him looking at her this way in the past when she'd found solutions to apparent unresolvable problems, when she'd worked the system to help his patients, or when she'd achieved big success with insurance companies or the board. She'd often disregarded them. She would always convince herself she was reading from his expression what she wanted and not what was actually there. Now, she saw it, seized it in her heart to preserve and cherish.

She could feel the feather light touch of his fingers moving along the muscle contour of her upper arm. "I wanted to surprise you," he said.

"You did," she told him, reaching up to trace the edge of his beard. "I thought I was losing my mind. I didn't know if I'd really seen you or if I was caught in a day dream."

He gave her a cocky grin. "Have you been fantasizing about me, Dr. Cuddy?" They both knew she had. Not that she would admit it.

"You wish," she teased him. He turned and stepped forward, using his body to press her against the wall.

The fingers of his left hand were slowly pulling up and bunching the fabric of her tea length dress, while his right hand had found easy access at the side slit.

"So you haven't thought about me touching you?" he asked, as his hand caressed the smooth skin of her ass. "Haven't thought of me kissing you," he whispered against her jaw. He kissed her once…twice on the neck. "Like this?" He continued to nip his way up to her ear.

"Not at all."

She felt his smile against her skin. This was a game they both enjoyed: the push and pull, the tease and denial, the quest for proof.

"Hmmm." The hum against her skin sent a shiver down her spine. "I got this distinct impression from your letters that you might have the hots for me."

His left hand had found its way beneath the fabric and now cupped her cheek, holding her steady as his other hand moved to cup her mound.

"Maybe you misunderstood," her voice quivered when she felt his fingers move along her heat.

"I was reading between the lines," he agreed. His fingers found the elastic of her panties and slipped beneath to slide along her slit.

Cuddy gasped. Her breath quickened as she felt the familiar warmth and tingle or arousal. She gripped his shoulder and her head dropped back against the wall when he found and circled her nub.

"I thought of you," he admitted. She looked at him beneath hooded eyes. It was an out-of-bounds move to hear him make such an admission. It turned her on as much as the pulse of his finger between her legs.

"Did you?" Her hands moved down his chest and her finger trembled as she sought to unbutton his shirt.

He slipped a finger inside her and back out, spreading the slick heat along her folders. She thought she could feel every single nerve. All 8,000 of them.

Her hips began to move with his fingers, seeking more while simultaneously resisting. The pressure was building, the tension grew in her abdomen and deep within her walls.

Cuddy mewed with pleasure. Her leg rose to give him better access, and she reached for his groin.

House gripped her wrist, releasing his hold on her hip to stop her from touching him.

"I want to watch you," he whispered.

His lips lightly touched hers, reassuring and soothing, while he guided her hand back to his chest. Cuddy whimpered.

"Every time I read a letter, I would think of you like this." His voice was heavy with desire.

His fingers continued to test and tease. She was an instrument, and he was finding the music within her. He was touching her with the confidence and ease of a long term lover, and yet he lingered with curiosity and amazement.

She felt his lips and the scratch of his beard along her neck and clavicle. Her skin was hypersensitive. Every point he touched seem to have a conduit leading to her core. His touch was electric, sending charges through her, pulsing waves of desire in a slow, rhythmic build.

"Look at me," he softly commanded.

Her lids were heavy, but her gaze locked on him. Those eyes. Those beautiful eyes. She could drown in the blue and be saved in their depths. In the storms of life, many of which they created themselves, she could always find peace in his eyes, if they could only find the moment, find the space. His eyes held their past, present and future. His eyes held truth. In the depths of his gaze was the love she longed for, the hope she feared. His eyes worshipped her and it quite simply took her breath away.

"You were right," he said. The hand that had released her wrist and moved along her body, now cupped her breast. His thumb grazed her nipple, already engorged with desire, but now hardened with need. "About everything."

Cuddy groaned as his finger dived deep into her while his thumb kept up the easy rhythm on her clit.

"I've always had the hots for you," he said. "This thing between us was always going somewhere."

He increased the rhythm and intensity of his touch.

"I hid behind drugs and sarcasm, and used my pain as a crutch," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. "I was afraid and selfish and needy…And I care, even though I focus on puzzles over people."

Her heart was pounding; her body hot and flushed. She didn't have to reach for her climax, it was seeking her, overtaking her. His words only intensified it, tapping into unmet desires and creating an emotional connection

"I was afraid to let you in," he said.

"House!" She cried out as she felt the waves build to the final crescendo.

"Look at me," he commanded, when her eyes started to close.

Every muscle in her body contracted as she did as she was told and dove into the depths of love and longing. She cried out as the orgasm took her, crashing through her in a wild and wonton wave of pleasure. But she remained moored to his eyes, in the still depths of his love for her.

House wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to prevent her from collapsing to the ground. She was weak; her muscles and bones melted to liquid.

She vaguely recognized his lips on her head and cheek. She thought his weak leg may have slipped between hers and he shifted his weight so the other could support them both. She was too overwhelmed to be certain of anything.

"You are so incredibly beautiful."

She heard that. She heard the awe in his voice.

Cuddy rolled her head to the side and looked up at him. She was regaining consciousness, though her strength was a little slower to return.

"I did think about you," she admitted. This game of truth was so much more erotic than their usual cat and mouse. "Every time I read your journal."

House ran his knuckles along her chin. His eyes were alight as he grinned at her, pleased and aroused at her admission.

"Did you touch yourself?"

Cuddy glared at him through squinted eyes, her tongue in cheek. Of course he had to go there. There was only so long he could be vulnerable, so long he could feel exposed.

His grin turned to a wide, arrogant smile. "You did."

She pushed his hand away and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Tell me," he said.

Her hands caressed his bare chest, making a circular pattern along his pecs before tracing a center line down his abdomen.

"Is that what you wanted? Me to masturbate? Is that why you sent me the journal?" she asked.

"Noooo," House groaned. "That's not how this works. I told you what you wanted to hear, now you tell me what I want to hear."

She chuckled deep in her throat. "You told me what I wanted to hear when you got back from Mayfield, not what I want to hear now."

She was working on the button and zipper of his pants.

"Oh, come on!" He whined. "You're really going to play twenty questions? After I just got you off?"

"It was one question," she pointed out. "And I didn't ask you to get me off."

"But you enjoyed it."

"You didn't?" She challenged him.

He sighed dramatically. She slipped her hand beneath his boxers and grabbed his package. His eyes glaze over as she stroked him.

"Why did you send me the journal?"

"It seemed like the best way to say all the things I've wanted to say," he managed to mutter, but his eyes were rolling back in his head as he surrendered to the feel of her hand.

His body swayed toward her and he propped his hand against the wall behind her for support.

Cuddy lightly kissed his lips. Her hand moved to the tip of his erection, circled the edge and moved back toward his balls. House moaned.

She kissed him again, her tongue finding his in a quick dance.

"I did touch myself," she whispered as she kissed down his jaw and neck.

He looked at her beseechingly. "Tell me," he encouraged her again. This wasn't just a game. He needed to know.

She cupped his balls, squeezing lightly, before quickly removing her hand and staring at him defiantly.

"Why would I tell you?"

"Why wouldn't you?" He snapped in frustration. Maybe she was pushing him too far.

She smiled saucily and leaned close to his ear. "Because I'd rather show you."

His jaw dropped and he was momentarily stunned.

Cuddy stepped to the side and away from him. His eyes followed as she very slowly removed her dress, letting it drop to the floor around her ankles. She stood before him in heels and a thong.

"I was thinking about what you wrote while I was at the party tonight." She stepped out of the circle of fabric and turned her back to him. He sucked in air through his teeth when she bent at the waist to pick her dress up from the floor. "I was thinking how I'd rather be at home…in bed…" she gave him a sexy look over her shoulder. "Touching myself."

She turned to face him again, catching him unabashedly staring at her nearly naked body.

"This was much better," she said. "Your hands feel better than mine."

He licked his lips and stared at her like a man in a desert finding his first water source.

"You know what I like even better?"

She waited for his brain to catch up with what she was saying. All of his blood had clearly gone south, much to her delight.

"What?" Cuddy would have laughed at the way his voice cracked when he spoke, but there was something so spine-tingling thrilling in having such an effect on a man like House. It was magnificent, and empowering.

"Your tongue," she answered.

House groaned: "God, Cuddy."

She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it up off her neck before letting it cascade down her back again. She knew the way the movement would lift and jiggle her breasts would tantalize him.

"I'll make you a deal," she said, taking a step toward him.

She had to give him credit. He was trying to focus. It appeared to be a herculean effort, but he was trying.

"I'll show you how I touch myself when I think of you," she offered. "But then you have to do something for me."

He was panting, but managed to ask: "What?"

"Everything I'm thinking when I touch myself."

How they made it to the bedroom would remain an unsolved mystery.


	9. Chapter 8 - Positive Fusion

**Finding A Cure – Chapter 8: Positive Fusion**

"If I had known that was what you were doing when you thought of me, I would have jumped you years ago," House said once he'd caught his breath. He'd shifted from the top to the side of her, and collapsed onto the bed exhausted, depleted and more sexually satiated than he'd ever been.

Cuddy released a throaty, equally satisfied laugh. "If I had known it would affect you like that, I would have offered a viewing."

House chuckled and turned his head on the pillow to look at her. "You would have had a tough time explaining to HR how you fractured my penis from the exertion."

"Pretty sure it would have been your humiliation," she said. "Since it would have been your own hand doing the fracturing."

"Oh, really?" he rolled onto his side to face her. "Now, how often did you get yourself off again?"

Cuddy laughed, realizing she'd just thrown down a gauntlet of sorts, thus compelling him to defend his sexual prowess and masculinity.

"Admit it," he lightly demanded as his palm slid along her stomach. "You were flicking your bean every night after work."

"Just because you needed to bash the bishop every time we had an argument doesn't mean I did," she said.

"You said bash the bishop," House grinned.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."

"And you're a liar."

She turned to look at him, eyes wide and stunned. "Seriously?"

"Fighting with me has always turned you on," he said. "A few minutes sparring with me can get you hotter than third base with any other man, and you know it. You just won't admit it."

"Your arrogance is showing."

"Not yet," he responded flippantly. "I'll need a few more minutes of recovery."

Cuddy laughed.

"So how often?" House pushed for an answer.

"Do you seriously need your ego stroked right now? After what we just did?"

"If by ego you mean Little Greg, then yes. He always needs you to stroke him."

"That would be very damaging to your skin."

"Good thing we're both doctors," he said. "How often?"

"You're insufferable."

"You're evading."

She turned to face him. "You seriously want a number?"

"I knew your exemplary administrative skill would demand no less than a consistent tally," he teased.

"You are a sick man."

"You probably color coded according to proficiency," he went on. "What type of argument produced the best orgasm?"

Cuddy stared blankly at him, as if she were barely tolerating his obnoxious behavior, but she laced her fingers through his when he took her hand so he would know she was enjoying him.

"Is it in a spreadsheet? I can look in your 'House Of Pleasure' folder."

"It's 'House of Pain'," she corrected.

"Who knew Dominatrix Cuddy did filing, too?"

She shook her head and buried her head a little deeper in the pillow as she chuckled.

House brought their joined hands up to his chest and shifted towards her. "Tell me," his voice was more pleading than demanding this time. "How often?"

"Ugh," Cuddy groaned, pulling her hand from his and rolling onto her stomach. "You're worse than a dog with a bone."

He brushed the hair from her face as her head sunk into the pillow, and he ran his fingers through the curls along her back.

"A huge part of my fantasy life involved you," he said. "The least you could do is let me know the fantasies were mutual."

"You know they were."

"I spent years obsessing over you," he said. "Hallucinated sex with you and yelled it from a balcony, pined away for you while you dated a dufus and then acted like a total sap when I finally got a chance with you. Not to mention going totally off the rails when you broke up with me. I have publically humiliated myself in front of you over and over again, but you can't privately tell me how often you've masturbated to thoughts of me?"

Cuddy frowned, hearing how the teasing had turned more serious and frustrated.

"Is that how you see yourself?"

House sighed. "It's how it's been."

Cuddy shifted and leaned onto an elbow, her head propped in her hand. "I didn't keep tally," she said, and quickly continued when he sighed. "You crept into my fantasies from the first time I met you in that bookstore."

He looked surprised. "People don't understand me," she admitted. "They never have. But you read me right away…and you were hot."

House grinned, the frustration from moments ago quickly released.

"You became a regular around the time I asked you to help with the fertility injections," she admitted.

His hand had roamed down to her rear. "Oh, yeah," he said with a throaty growl. "They ramped up a bit for me around that time too. Some very specific ones."

Cuddy grinned. "I think I had similar ones," she said. "You had become a regular a little before then, but after you teasing those few days, you were pretty much the go-to fantasy after that."

"I never teased you," he corrected her, tongue-in-cheek. She scowled at him.

"It's not teasing if I would have followed through," he said. "And if you had given the okay I would have gladly had you on your desk…many times."

"I did give you the okay…many times."

House looked away from her, his eyes suddenly shadowed with sadness. "I wasted a lot of time."

Cuddy sighed and laid her head back down on the pillow. "We both did," she said. She knew he was not only remembering the past, but thinking about the things she'd written in her letters and the memories he'd shared in his journal. They both had so many regrets. She wanted to put them behind. No, she wanted to bury them and move on with him.

"House?"

"Hmm?" He was still staring into the distance.

"What happened at the hearing?" she asked. He hadn't really told her about the follow-up hearing. "Is it safe to expect more of this?"

"Yes," he answered, turning to face her again. "I have to do three more months of community service, and pay some fines, but no more time."

"So you'll keep working at the half-way house?"

He nodded. "It seems to work."

She knew it did. Nolan had told her how the young kids responded to him. It hadn't surprised her.

House grew quiet, his fingers tracing a path up and down her spine.

"What are you thinking?" she asked as the minutes passed.

His hand stopped moving and he gave her a mocking grin. She grimaced and buried her face in the pillow in embarrassment.

"Oh, God," she groaned. "I'm becoming a cliché."

"But a sexy one," he smirked. His hand moved back down to the curve of her back. "I was thinking you have the softest skin." He burrowed deeper down into the bed and moved closer to her. "Especially here," he whispered, his fingers tracing a pattern around the dimples at the dip just above her ass. "Here, it's like rose petals."

Cuddy felt her heart flutter. The contrast of such tender, romantic words from this gruff man always left her a bit weak at the knees. House closed one eye and feigned to flinch. She knew he was certain she would mock him for being cheesy, but she gave him a soft smile and said: "You said that our first night together, after the Hoe Down."

He recognized the nostalgic look in her eye and thought back to that night, they way they'd been unable to keep their hands off each other, had barely made it to the bed. Their clothes had been stripped away and dropped to the floor as they moved; their hands clumsily groping each other as they desperately sought to fill the craving that had taken them over. After quite a few rounds, they'd laid in bed talking, much like they were now, as he traced her curves and filed every inch of her into his memory banks.

"I was incredibly observant for a randy perv," he teased. Cuddy frowned and turned to face him.

"There's something I need to tell you."

House looked at her guardedly, obviously bracing himself for some kind of hurt.

"That night at the conference when you told me you were going to call," her voice was serious as she cautiously revealed. "You really shook me up."

"Yeah, I gathered that when you ran away," he responded with a bit more bite than intended. It still smart. He'd been so hopeful that night, finally feeling more secure after his return from Mayfield and ready to pursue a relationship with her. Her rejection had been a big blow; Lucas had almost made it knockout.

Cuddy closed her eyes, and House brought his palms to rest on her hip, hoping his touch would ease her discomfort and offset the harshness in his tone.

"I thought I'd met my soulmate," she quietly admitted. "And I didn't even believe in soulmates."

She reached for the arm that was bent beneath his pillow, and traced the veins of his bicep and forearm. "I spent a lot of years building a narrative to negate the feelings I had that night, coming up with ways to deny the disappointment I felt. And I spent those months while you were in Mayfield feeling guilty for what had happened…I convinced myself we were toxic to each other when we got too close. So I made sure to keep my distance."

House watched her intently as she spoke, listening to every word and reading every expression. "When you said those things…when you admitted you wanted to call…You pretty much shook my world," she said.

He moved away from her, swinging his legs around to get out of bed, and Cuddy grabbed his arm to stop him. "I didn't mean to…"

"Shut up," he said, turning to look at her and seeing she was afraid he was leaving. As if he was an idiot. "I'm just going to get something out of my bag."

She watched as he stood and walked toward the window. She hadn't even noticed the bag earlier, but now the sight of it helped release the anxiety that had so quickly gripped her.

"You know, the bag that I dropped in here when I realized my stuff had been moved from my lab to your place," he continued as he bent to retrieve it, placing it on the adjacent chair so he could search through it. "I figured if you could make such a move, I was safe to claim a spot in your bedroom."

Cuddy grinned. "Well, you did marry me…sort of," she said. "That gives me certain rights."

"Rights to relocate my stuff?"

"Incorporate your stuff," she corrected. "It's called merging our lives together."

"It's called commitment," he said.

"Be careful what you promise," she teased.

House looked at her with uncertainty. "You sure you're ready for me to live with you?"

She shrugged. "We shouldn't have waited the last time."

They both had always moved quickly to get what they wanted, jumping in with both feet and all energy focused on the goal, and yet they'd been cautious and careful when they'd decided to try a relationship. He'd raised flags; she'd ignored them and pushed forward, but then boxed them into a set of unconscious rules and conditions that prevented any real movement.

House nodded, agreeing with her assessment.

"Volume two," he said, tossing to her the notebook he'd found. "I even wrote in it just before I came to find you tonight, so the questions to your last letter are all answered."

Some of her letters had mentioned her regrets after he'd returned from Mayfield and why she'd been so determined to stay with Lucas. What she'd said tonight must be addressed in the pages, so he clearly wasn't going to talk about it any longer.

Cuddy fanned through the pages. The notebook was full: pages and pages of words and sketches. Excitement washed over her as she thought of all the answers she would have to questions long unanswered.

House was warmed as he watched her smile, understanding what Nolan had meant when he'd said she'd been giddy to receive the first journal. He jumped onto the bed beside her, causing them both to bounce off the mattress. Cuddy chuckled at his playfulness.

"Once you read that," he said. "My heart will be as bared as my body."

Cuddy smirked and reached to turn on the bedside lamp. "You have no idea how sexy that is," she said.

"Wait! You're reading it now?" He looked horrified.

"What did you expect?" she asked. "You just said you bared your heart to me."

House rolled his eyes as she flipped to the first page and settled back against the headboard to begin to read.

"You're naked," he said.

She didn't respond.

House pulled her legs apart and positioned himself between them.

"You're seriously going to read right now?"

"You still need time to recover," she quipped.

"You don't," he pointed out.

"I'll wait. I can read while you relax a bit."

He glared at her. "I'll read too," he said, then shifted her legs over his shoulders.

Cuddy arched a brow and looked down at him from over the journal. "Read what?"

House gave her a lecherous smile. "Your lips."

His tongue slid along her slit once, twice…at the end of the third stroke, he suck her nub into his mouth.

"Oh, God," she moaned.

House chuckled when he heard the journal drop to the floor.

* * *

He didn't want to get up. He knew when he'd been yanked from slumber by the ache in his leg it was only a matter of time before he'd be forced to address it. But he'd laid there anyway, watching her sleep as he'd done countless nights in the past. He didn't think she realized how often he did it, any more than she realized how often his leg prevented a good night's sleep. Pain was always there to mar the beautiful moments.

House leaned in to kiss her neck, smiling when her shoulder lifted in response to the tickle of his beard. He couldn't hold out any longer; he needed to stretch and walk it out or he'd slip into a difficult pain cycle.

After a quick stop to relieve himself in the bathroom and slip on the tuxedo pants he'd worn that evening, he stepped quietly out of the bedroom and down the hall. Staying hydrated was an important part of pain prevention, so he headed straight to the kitchen for a bottle of water.

When he moved to close the refrigerator, he noticed the letter Rachel had written him hanging on the door. (He was surprised to see she'd confiscated it. It meant a lot to him, but it wasn't exactly a shining moment in their history.) It was secured by a picture magnet of the three of them. It was made from a selfie Cuddy had taken shortly after he'd started staying the night at her place when they'd finally gotten together. He'd made it into a magnet and given it to Cuddy as a gift from Rachel for her birthday. Another moment marred by his stupidity. It was bad enough he'd tried to get out of celebrating with her, but then he'd drugged her mother and Wilson during the meal. She'd probably kept the magnet because Rachel had given it to her and she didn't want to answer any questions her daughter would pose.

He removed the twist top on the water and took a few swallows before moving to the family room. He'd noticed earlier some of his knick-knacks and souvenirs from the road trip with Wilson were sprinkled around the room. He grinned as he thought of her response when he'd teased her about it earlier.

 _It's called merging our lives together._

And she really had. As he walked around the room, he noticed it wasn't just the knick-knacks. The dolphin blanket he'd bought when Wilson became unable to regulate his body temperature was draped across the back of the sofa. The recent medical and astrophysics journals he'd been reading before the hearing were stacked on the coffee table. His extra canes were in an umbrella holder beside the bookshelf, and some of his books were intermingled with hers throughout the shelves. He grinned when he noticed they were alphabetized and organized by genre. She was so anal.

House rubbed his thigh as he looked through the pictures on the mantle. Two of them were of Rachel, one was of her holding Rachel during her simchat, one was of Cuddy and her dad, and another of the Cuddy women. The last was a picture of her with him and Wilson. Judging by the formalwear, it was taken at a hospital fundraiser. He didn't remember it being taken, but it wasn't uncommon for a photographer to be taking candid shots for the hospital newsletter. He suspected this was one of them since none of them were looking at the camera. Wilson and Cuddy were looking off to the side, and judging from their expressions, they were mocking someone. He was looking at Cuddy. He knew immediately that was why she'd kept the picture. He wasn't leering at her breasts or scowling at her; he wasn't even looking at her with lust-filled eyes. He was looking at her with amusement and affection…like a man obviously enamored. He almost groaned. Had he really been so transparent? Even that long ago?

"What a putz," he muttered, shaking his head as he continued to look around.

He noticed his "American Folk Blues Festival" and Wilson's "Virtigo" framed posters now decorated the spare room. As well as his phrenology head bust, antique apothecary bottles and even his microscope and reagents box.

"How'd you get your hands on this?" he whispered. These things were left in his old apartment. Wilson had packed it up in storage before they'd left on their trip. He'd only gone into that unit once: to move his piano and guitars to the lab. He hadn't seen the other items since.

House mulled it over as he moved to Rachel's room. He briefly wondered who was watching the little gir. He'd been too distracted earlier to ask. He guessed she was big enough now to have sleepovers. She no longer slept in a crib, but a single bed, he noticed.

Her room was filled with stuffed animals and toys. There was a small desk in the corner with slots for pencils and crayons, and a rolling storage unit for scissors, glue and various craft materials hidden beneath it. Her shelves were overflowing with books. House grinned when he saw it; she was a reader. It strangely pleased him.

He slipped further down the hall, looking for the entrance to the sunroom. He had noticed the addition the first night he'd come here, when he'd waited for Cuddy on the deck, but he'd never seen it from the inside.

House turned the corner at the end of the hall and caught a glimpse of the floor to ceiling windows that lined the back wall. He took a few more steps and noted the way the moonlight reflected off the…he froze in the entry. His piano was placed in the corner: the window wall on the left, his guitars hanging on the wall behind the bench.

There was something about seeing his instruments in her home, centerpieces in such a magnificent room. He felt a knot form in his throat as he slowly walked to the corner. His fingers moved along the top frame until he reached keyboard side, where he lifted the lid and just barely touched the surface of the keys with reverence.

He noticed slip of paper on the music rack and flipped the switch on the small piano lamp to see it.

 _I had it tuned. So now you have more than me to play._

House smiled when he read it. He'd have to tell her he had his own tuning kit. Not that it mattered. What was most important, what held the most significance for him, was the fact she'd had the piano moved at all. This was so much more than his clothes and few of his personal things. Music was his therapy, his release valve; it soothed the savage beast and kept him sane. Somehow she'd discerned he'd need it over the next few months as he returned to the real world.

He wanted to play now, but he didn't want to wake her. He wondered if she would be okay with him installing some sound proofing so he could play at night.

House looked around at what the piano light had illuminated. There was an entertainment center on the opposite wall. He saw his stereo and game consoles, his records and games lining the shelves, his chair and ottoman in the corner, a desk…House paused and stepped toward the desk.

It was her desk. The one he'd pulled from storage and had refinished for her. The one offered as an apology after he'd been such an idiot. House stared at it, thinking how much history was contained in a basic piece of furniture. He ran his fingers along the surface, remembering how much he'd wanted it to make a statement, to speak for him. Now he thought it might be speaking for her.

He glanced at the items lining the surface: a red and grey ball like the one he'd always kept on his desk, the ridiculous statue she'd kept on hers, the picture he'd taken of her as sleeping beauty…House grinned. (There were more fantasies than memories wrapped into that photo.) A couple of file trays (he smirked when he saw the printed labels), a holder full of pencils and a laser pointer, a medical file…

He immediately recognized the file.

" _I need you to do something for me," he said. They were saying their goodbyes, standing in the courthouse hall just before he signed the papers that would take him back into custody. "It's important."_

" _Okay." She didn't hesitate._

 _He looked around nervously, ensuring that no one was in hearing distance. "It's about Jamal's mother," he said. "You remember him? He was…"_

" _The kid who runs your errands," she inserted. "He's the reason I found you."_

 _House nodded. "His mother is sick."_

" _Yes, he told me you'd been helping."_

 _House swallowed, afraid to tell her what he'd been doing._

" _House?" She recognized that look._

" _She has cancer," he explained. "I've been giving her chemo treatments."_

 _Cuddy gasped, her eyes wide as the impact of what he was saying sunk in._

" _You don't have a license."_

" _I know."_

" _You can't get that kind of medication."_

" _I've learned a few tricks while I've been dead," he said._

" _My God, House…if anyone finds out…"_

" _I know."_

" _You could go back to jail."_

" _I know."_

" _For a long time."_

" _I know."_

" _What were you thinking?" Cuddy was getting agitated as the reality of the situation kicked in. He could see the flush rising up her neck, the tension in her shoulders, the stress as she rubbed her temples. He wanted to explain, to reassure her that it would be okay, but they didn't have time for that. Not now._

" _That I had nothing to lose and she had everything to gain," House said, taking her by the arms and focusing her attention back on what he was saying. "She doesn't have insurance," he explained. "He's a good kid. He doesn't deserve to lose his mother just because they don't have money."_

" _House," Stacy stepped up behind them. "We really need to go."_

 _House nodded. "One more minute," he said, his eyes never leaving Cuddy._

" _Her file is in the lab," he said, after Stacy stepped away. "Letitia Moore. All of the protocols are standard, and they are all listed. I followed all the rules."_

 _Cuddy frowned. "Except for the part where you're no longer a doctor and you illegally obtained drugs."_

" _Except for that," he sighed. "You can yell at me later. Right now I need you to take care of her while I'm gone. Promise me you'll do that."_

 _He didn't know why, but her eyes softened as she looked at him._

" _Promise me." He could see she was already considering how she would do it, but he needed to hear her say it._

" _I promise," she said. "I'll take care of her…but it will be my way. On my terms."_

 _He didn't argue. He trusted her completely. He always had._

She'd told him she understood why he'd done it in the first letter she'd written. After all, her baby for many years had been that free clinic. She knew very well how poverty and a lack of insurance impacted every day health, and even more the treatment of disease. She also understood the risk and the sacrifice he'd made in taking on this woman's care, and why it had been an easy choice. What she didn't understand and wanted him to explain is what made his shields drop and his heart go out to Jamal in the first place.

It wasn't the first time it had happened. She'd reminded him of several times over the years at PPTH when the needs of a child prompted him to take the case of a parent. She wanted to know why. He'd written several pages in his journal about how he'd felt as a military brat, but the more he wrote, the more it sounded like insane rambling. He wasn't even sure HE understood why the kids she mentioned mattered. How could he accurately explain what compelled him to take the cases? In the end, he hadn't had to say more. When she'd written after receiving the journal, she'd understood completely. She understood him. Like she always had.

House opened the file to find a post-it note on the cover page.

 _Why didn't you keep records like this when you were working for me?_

He grinned and flipped through the file, quickly reviewing her notes. She'd brought Letitia on as a patient in her practice, working with a Doctor Reddy, an oncologist. She'd continued the protocol, tweaking it a bit after some follow-up scans. It looked like she was responding well.

House turned and leaned against the desk, looking at the credenza along the wall. She'd placed his laptop on it, along with a few other curiosities he'd brought back from his journey, and a picture of him and Wilson. House was more moved than he could have imagined as he considered how she'd combined their things. The attention to detail was more than her anal nature; it was more than creating a place for him or designing a comfortable space. It was their history, the good times and bad, the failures and successes. It was their love and commitment on display, surrounding him, comforting him, reminding him that she'd always been there, his constant, his home.

He picked up the other frame on the credenza and stared at the picture of the two of them. They were facing each other, laughing at some secret joke. They looked…happy.

He didn't know when it had been taken, but whoever took it had captured a feeling he wanted to remember. When doubts set in, and the pain became too much, when life weighed heavy on them - as he knew it would - he wanted to remember the precious connection that had been captured in that photo. He couldn't help but think it was why she'd done all this, why she'd combined their things in such a way. She wanted to remember this feeling too, the feeling that surrounded him, the feeling he had now.

It was hope.

* * *

She reached for him, still in a dreamy state between deep slumber and consciousness, but the bed was empty. It may have been the cold, or her need to be near him, or simply the feeling of absence that woke her, but it was the soft guitar sounds that drew her out of bed. Cuddy slipped on her robe and walked barefoot down the hall to the sunroom, following the deep resonance of his voice as he softly sang.

" _You fill up my senses_

 _Like a night in the forest."_

He was playing the song at a slower tempo than she'd ever heard, adding notes and picking patterns that moved it from a sentimental folk ballad to soft jazz. He sang at a low octave with a slight rasp, and she could imagine him alone on stage in a smoke-filled blues club, sitting on a stool playing with just his guitar and a cigarette, illuminated by a single spotlight.

" _Like the mountains in springtime,_

 _Like a walk in the rain,"_

She stopped in the entry, struck by the site of him. Wearing only his tuxedo pants, he sat barefoot and bare chested, lost in song against a moonlit backdrop. He was breathtaking.

" _Like a storm in the desert,_

 _Like a sleepy blue ocean,_

 _You fill up my senses,_

 _Come fill me again."_

She didn't know if he heard her or just felt her presence, but his eyes opened and locked on hers and she thought she could drown in the blue of his eyes, like crystal water shimmering beneath a night sky.

"Did I wake you?" It was not quite a whisper, but a soft voice that spoke to her.

She shook her head and stepped into the room, his tender expression pulling her like a magnet. "I missed you," she explained.

Cuddy stood before him, her short robe loosely tied at her waist, her curls hanging wild around her face and down her shoulders. Of all her varied looks and impressions, the many fantasies and facades, it would probably surprise her to know, this was the one of his dreams. So relaxed and saturated in femininity, strong and soft, sexy and alluring.

"You couldn't sleep?" she asked.

His hand reached over the guitar that was still in his lap and ran up the side of her thigh.

"My leg," he answered without gripe or further explanation.

"You okay?"

"Mmm." He looked up at her reassuringly. "Fine," he murmured. "Just ached a bit."

The pressure of his hand urged her to step closer.

"You found my storage unit," he said.

She smiled shyly at him. She could tell he wasn't upset. If anything, he was impressed by her snooping skills and the overall presumptuous act of moving him in to her place.

"There were great treasures in those boxes," she said.

He grinned, but his eyes didn't meet hers. His fingers had slipped beneath the fabric of her robe and now slowly crept along the skin of her inner thigh.

"And now you have all kinds of future blackmail evidence."

"I had no idea you were so sentimental," she teased.

He briefly glanced up at her as he pushed the fabric to the side with the back of his hand and wrist. "Yes, you did."

"Not about me." She was breathless.

His eyes followed the path of hair along her mound, a landing strip that led him straight two her swollen sex. It never ceased to amaze and awe him that she could be so turned on by him. A look, a word, a touch…sometimes just the simple act of being in his presence could ignite her.

"Liar," he said as he looked up at her. "You knew."

Just as she'd known why he'd kept that Halloween picture of her as sleeping beauty, she'd always known – or at least suspected – that he kept many other things for similar reasons. Some sexually driven, but some more emotionally based.

"Well," she shrugged. "Your constant quest to obtain my panties may have been a clue."

Cuddy gasped at the light touch of his finger sliding along her folds. House hissed through his teeth as he felt the slick heat of her arousal.

"You were surprised by the depth of my obsession?" His voice was husky with desire as his eyes moved back up to her eyes, letting her see the seriousness of his question.

Her hips tilted toward him of their own volition, inviting and seeking more of him.

"Surprised by how long you…" her voice trailed off on a moan when his fingers hit just the right bunch of nerves at her nub.

His fingers stilled but remained in place as he moved the guitar from his lap with his other hand and leaned the neck against the wall to the side of him.

"How long I've wanted you?" he resumed the conversation, and increased the pressure of his fingertips circling her clit.

Her breath was slower, her neck and chest flushed. She was leaning into his touch, and in doing so offering a better view, a better angle. He felt his stomach tighten and his erection pressing against the seam of his pants; his chest constricted and he breathed deep, filling his lungs with air.

"No," she answered. "How long you've loved me."

As she looked down at him through hooded eyes, she could see he too was overcome with desire and need. Cuddy untied the belt of her robe and shifted her shoulders so it would drop to the floor. She watched as he traced the lines and curves of her body as if it was the first time he'd seen her naked, as if he'd never touched her or made love to her. He looked at her with reverence and wonder every time.

She palmed his cheek and ran her fingers along his jaw. His hands moved to her hips, pulling her toward him so she could straddle his lap.

He brushed her hair away from her face and off her shoulders as she settled.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, then looked away from her, nervous and shy.

It was rare she'd heard him say it in the past, and yet tonight he'd said it twice. This time without any additional sarcastic comments.

"For the devil," she teased him by finishing the sentence in a more customary way.

He smirked. "The devil was a fallen angel," he said. His hands moved down her spine. "The most lovely and favored of all angels, if I recall."

Cuddy grinned back at him. "Are you giving me a Bible lesson?"

"I'm trying to tempt you into the original sin." He cupped the cheeks of her rear and pulled her closer into him.

"Sex was not the original sin."

"No, but I have a snake that wants to tempt you," he said. "Maybe convince you to eat some fruit. And by fruit I mean…"

"You are a sick man," Cuddy chuckled.

House gave her a lecherous grin. He was so freaking gorgeous when he looked at her like that.

"Where'd you get that picture of us?"

His shift in topic was sudden, but she immediately knew which photograph he was referencing and followed his lead.

"Wilson took it," she answered, and House froze for just a moment. She knew he still felt raw from the loss of their friend. "It's from that luncheon we were forced to go to with Samuels," she further explained.

"Oh, God," he groaned. "How is it possible he even caught us awake? That was the most boring lecture I've ever been tortured with, and that is saying a lot considering all the pretentious HR workshops you made me sit through."

Cuddy smiled wide, enjoying his dramatic response.

"You kept a running commentary on how he was redefining Dante's circles of Hell," she reminded him.

House smirked as he remembered. She'd been frustrated at first, hissing at him to be quiet and "at least pretend to be human." By the 4th circle, she was barely hiding her laughter. "I was trying to crack that annoying armor you were wearing."

"I was being professional," she sassed. "And you were trying to embarrass me."

"I was trying to get you to remember yourself," he firmly corrected. She frowned, silently questioning his response. "Your job may have been an administrator, but that wasn't you. Your career never defined you. It never will."

She knew what he was saying. She didn't need to be in control or have all that power, even though he understood why she sought it. But with him, she didn't have to prove anything. He saw her and loved her without all that.

"Was it his, or did you have it all this time?"

Cuddy blushed. She wished she could say it was Wilson's. He had always been their biggest fan, but she decided to come clean. "I've had it."

House smiled tenderly and leaned closed to whisper in her ear: "I would have kept it too."

She shivered and pulled him into her embrace. They held each other tight, reveling in the natural camaraderie that over-lay their desire. Things had not always been so easy with them. Thought their relationship – in all iterations - had always had an undeniable rhythm and connectedness, it was undergirded with fear and trepidation, hurt and pain, with a mountain of baggage that seemed insurmountable. Now, after so many years, after all the twists and turns on their emotionally perilous journey, they seemed to have found a place of amity and security, a place where their love might actually flourish. Here in this room that she had created for him, a place packed with memories and mementoes to reflect the very essence of them, he felt even more submerged in her.

House buried his head in her neck to breathe in her fragrance. He could feel her surrounding him as he sank into her touch. Her hands moved on his back and shoulders, her lips on the pulse of his neck. She was intoxicating.

" _Come…let me…love…you."_ Cuddy heard him whisper and knew now why he sang the song. He had filled her senses, too. He had become her air, her heartbeat, her being.

" _Let me give my life to you."_ She felt the song on her skin and his hum reverberating through every nerve of her body. He shifted between her thighs, and moved with the sway of her body against him. _"Let me drown in your laughter."_ He kissed a path down her neck, each touch erotic and slow. She let her head fall back to give him better access and sighed as the contrast between his soft, plush lips and the scruff of his beard was magnified. _"Let me die in your arms."_

His lips moved down her chest to the curve of her breast. His tongue lightly licked her nipple as a hand slipped between them. She felt the waves of desire crescendo as he moved his chin around the sensitive bud of her breast and his finger found her clit once again. _"Let me lay down beside you."_ He looked up at her, his eyes glazed with passion, and she writhed against him. _"Let me always be with you."_

She pulled him to her, swallowing his words in a kiss. How could she let him finish? His touch, his breath, his voice: they were too much for he to stand. Her flesh was too sensitized, her heart too full. Her body was crying out for more, more of what he sang of, more of him.

Cuddy fumbled with the zipper of his pants and quickly pulled him out. She briefly pulled away from him, just long enough to angle herself correctly above him before she sank down on him.

"House," she moaned as he filled her. His name was a sigh, a mantra on her lips, an echo in her heart.

House gripped her thighs, holding her still as he savored the sensation of being inside her. There was no better sensation, nothing more intensely satisfying. "Can we just stay like this forever?"

Their gazes locked as they shared the moment of mutual bliss. "God, I would love that," she gave him a saucy smile. "But they may not appreciate us showing up like this at Rachel's school."

House laughed, and then groaned deep in his throat as her walls tightened around him.

"You feel so good."

"So do you," she agreed. She wanted to stay still and savor the feeling of fullness, the profound experience of being joined with him, but her body was seeking release and she had to move.

"I'm not going to last long," he warned. Her smoky laugh told him she wouldn't either.

He was watching her breasts bounce in sync with their increased rhythm, but when she flung her head back and arched her back, he leaned in and sucked on her nipple.

"Yes," she hissed, feeling the electric current jolt through her body. She need more. She needed him deeper and harder, and she increased the intensity of her movements as she frantically reached for release.

House braced his feet more firmly on the floor as he drove his hips up to meet her.

"There!" Cuddy cried out, and House didn't let up on her. He overwhelmed her senses, sparking every nerve and igniting the flame inside her that burned only for him.

Cuddy felt herself catapulted through a cloud of wonton desire into the warm pool of ecstasy. As House was pulled along with in the tsunami of passion, he thought how being with her was everything he could ever want, everything he needed.

Then there was nothing but euphoria, and the hope that it would never end.


End file.
